


Draco's Boggart

by hayleyisbored



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Parents, Angst, But It's Not Just Sadness, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone Is Basically Sad, Friendship, M/M, Mentions of Death, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2019-05-20 04:26:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14887616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayleyisbored/pseuds/hayleyisbored
Summary: "You don't scare me, Malfoy.""I know," Draco says, the fury on his face sliding off to leave a blank mask in its stead. "That was always my problem."





	1. Chapter 1

Harry Potter is standing outside of the Great Hall, quietly trying to collect himself. 

No one in the Muggle world would guess that there is anything remarkable about this boy or what he had done. They'd sensed something dangerous mingling with the early morning fog and the dark, churning skies. They'd uneasily laughed off the sweat that dampened their hairline or the prickling feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. They'd read about the disappearances of neighbours and signed it off as just another tragedy. Yet they could never put a name to it; all they had known was that there was _something_ out there.

Harry knew the name though. He knew it as well as he could recall the final sound Lord Voldemort ever made as his body hit the earth with a resounding thud. Human. After everything, all he had been was human.

Incredible, Harry thinks, how untouched the castle and grounds appear. The Battle of Hogwarts had taken a toll on the school, he'd witnessed it first-hand but you'd never know it now; a third of it had been reduced to piles of rubble, crumbling ruins of a home he loved dearly. He'd walked the grounds himself in those early days after the battle and observed the start of the clean up but he couldn't revel in winning. It felt like he'd lost everything else for the necessity of that victory. 

Their losses had been great, personal losses that sat as heavy as a stone in Harry's gut. Voldemort had been defeated, his followers scattered and rounded up, and there was no reason to fear anymore. Yet Harry felt a wrongness that he couldn't explain, not even to Hermione when she'd pressed him for more. She'd told him it would be good for him to talk about it, that he would feel better for it - and he had, he _did_ \- but something wasn't right. He was different. Changed. A burden he'd known for seven years had finally been lifted but what had it left him with? Everything he'd not allowed himself to feel since he'd started this fight; his past, his grief, his future.

Oh Merlin, he can't _breathe_. 

Harry lets himself sag against the wall, fighting hard against the buckling in his knees to keep upright. He's glad McGonagall had no qualms for him - or any other student whose life had been disrupted last year by Voldemort's reign - to come back, to return to complete his studies. He really is. It's all just a little...too much in this moment.

"Harry?"

He looks across and sees Hermione peering around the doors of the Great Hall, the sound of low chattering spilling out with the warmth from behind her. Torch light from the bracket mounted on the wall casts a golden glow across her dark skin, orange wisps rippling through every curl in her hair when she steps closer.

"They're about to start the Sorting. Do you want to come in?"

It isn't a demand, it's an opportunity for him to slip away to the common room if he wanted to. He stares at his friend, at the concern in her brown eyes and the way she's twisting a curl around and around her finger, to the well deserved Head Girl pin secured neatly into the folds of her school robes. He knows that she's just as scared as he is - Ron, too - and finds a genuine smile tentatively creeping onto his face. Smiles have been hard to come by, these days.

"Yeah, I'm coming. Thanks Hermione."

She grabs his hand and squeezes it, peering back into the hall. From where they stand, they can see the bright red of Ron's hair flashing through the shifting bodies. McGonagall is seated in Dumbledore's old chair, chatting to Professor Slughorn further down the teacher's table. The stool and Sorting Hat have already been placed before the entire school and Harry doesn't envy the first year's that terrifying walk between the aisles, of stepping into a new experience. He's still nervous to be walking out there now. 

"Are you going to be alright?"

Harry follows her line of sight and sees Ginny next to Ron. He watches her fiddle with the fork in front of her, unusually subdued, a curtain of hair concealing her expression. They'd broken up the month before; it had been mutual, heartbreaking because the grief between them was simply too great and they'd realised early on that it wasn't working anymore. They'd cried together on Ginny's bed the night they confessed that to each other, mourning what they could have been if not for the war, if not for the death, if not for the agony that wrung out any good thing between them. Harry loses himself for a moment, remembering the stifling darkness from her sheets pulled up over their heads, the overwhelming scent of her floral shampoo against the pillow so that it slowly suffocated him, her breath hot against his face and fogging up his glasses as she pressed a kiss to his lips.

Harry had tried to be there for her as best as he could after Fred's death, as she tried to be there for him. To love each other hadn't been enough in the end, they just weren't compatible any longer.

"I'll be okay - we both will, I hope."

Hermione squeezes his hand again before they step into the hall. The effect of his presence is instantaneous, he knew it would be. He'd been hiding outside for this very reason.

Nearly every face turns to stare at him, a noticeable hush spreading across the room. Some people actually strain to get a glimpse of him, kneeling in their seats and shoving their friends by the shoulder, the revered looks on their faces too much for Harry to bear. 

He doesn't want any of it; he'd been offered an Order of Merlin, First Class the week after Voldemort had died, when the wizarding community had begun to accept that the threat which had long since lurked over them was at last gone. For them, it was as if the air had cleared of a perilous smoke and they were able to breathe freely again. He turned the Order of Merlin down. He encouraged Ron and Hermione to take theirs. He felt that they deserved the recognition far more than he ever did - than he could ever want - and it was something of a respite to celebrate what they had done, what they had _sacrificed_ to help Harry when he'd needed it most.

As he walks with Hermione down the length of the aisle to reach the empty space on the bench opposite Ron, Harry notices a familiar blonde head determinedly frowning down at his plate. Malfoy. One of the only faces not fighting for acknowledgement from him. He seems intent on remaining ignored, the significant space around him at the Slytherin table suggesting his isolation is preferred both by himself and his peers.

Ron is unperturbed by the waves of whispers lapping around him, a resilient island against the current of gossip and awe. If his grin for Harry is warm, the one he shoots Hermione is radiant. It hurts Harry a little to witness that unadorned affection, not out of spite but of longing.

Things hadn't worked out with Ginny but he wishes they had. He tries out a small smile for her as he takes his seat and is relieved to receive one in return.

"How are you, Harry?"

"Just about holding on. How about you?"

Ginny looks tired. She looks as tired as Harry feels. She contemplates his question, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and nods decisively.

"I guess I could say the same." she says, reaching out over the table to pat Harry's hand, fingernails chewed down to the bone. Those nails have been a constant source of dismay to Molly. "I'm fine though, I'll be fine."

"They better get a move on, I'm bloody starving." Ron says, craning his neck to look up at the teacher's table. "Is Hagrid giving them a tour of the castle or what?!"

For the most part, Ron is unchanged. His friendship with Harry has only grown stronger, any petty jealousy from their younger years banished once and for all. Ron anchors Harry into himself, almost makes him feel like nothing has happened when they laugh together but it never lasts long. 

There are times when Ron thinks of Fred and withdraws, privately grieving; Harry had accidentally stumbled, unseen, upon him and Hermione in the garden at the Burrow that summer, to see Ron sobbing into Hermione's lap as she brushed through his hair with trembling fingers. Harry had retreated back into the shade of the house, all at once feeling Fred's absence, not knowing what to do with himself. He'd felt numb. Lost.

Harry is grateful for Ron's choice of topic, for the relief of not talking about himself for a change. It had been endless, the journalists would never seem to leave him alone. If they didn't pester him, they'd go after Hermione or Ron. They'd hunt down Luna, or Neville, they'd hound Hagrid. They talked to school friends or people who happened to be in his year but never spoke a word to him, they even tracked down Oliver Wood to do a piece on Harry's Quidditch days. Wood had taken the time to punch the man squarely in the face for his trouble. 

The stories that they had gotten weren't from the people who knew him best. All they had to go on were distant memories about a scrawny twelve year old boy who had kindly passed on a set of weighing scales once in Potions, or outdated hearsay from when he'd emerged from the Triwizard Tournament clutching Cedric's dead body. Things that had once condemned him to the public were now used to praise him. Every detail was inflated. The Prophet had ran a week long story because Harry had been spotted talking to Cho Chang in Diagon Alley, one that dragged his break up with Ginny into the mix and speculated on his so-called newly rekindled romance with Cho.

He hates all of it.

"Dunno, mate. Can't be too long now."

Even as he says the words, the doors burst open and Professor Sprout is leading in a crowd of nervous first years. He can't imagine how they must be feeling; they've probably heard countless stories about the battle, of what happened in this very room. To walk into such a hall bearing banners which commemorate lost students and staff, to be confronted by hundreds of watchful faces, to know that something monumental had taken place on the very ground they are walking over must make Hogwarts appear more formidable than it already is on first sight.

Harry finds his attention slipping from the first year students and Professor Sprout as she begins to call them forth one by one. He looks around instead. He watches Hagrid attempting to sneak to his chair and knocking Madame Hooch from her seat by mistake. He watches McGonagall shift ever so slightly in the headmaster's position, as if she keenly feels the full weight of responsibility on her shoulders. His eyes skim over the faces that are still staring in adoration at him, anxious not the let his gaze linger too long on any of them.

Until he seeks out someone who he knows will be too preoccupied to notice. He looks instead to Draco Malfoy continuing on in his mission to glare down at the table like he's hoping to disappear from the spot. A miracle, really, that he decided to come back for his final year. He had to have known the sort of commotion he would cause and yet he still chose to return. Outwardly, Malfoy still looks preened; there isn't a single hair out of place, nor a wrinkle in his clothes but his face is pallor, his complexion ashy against the sleek white-blonde of his hair. Something else is different there though. Harry can't seem to look away from him, trying to place what it is...

Hermione jabs an elbow into his ribs, her whisper in his ear. "Harry, what are you looking at?"

"Nothing." he says too quickly, turning back to the front of the hall so that she won't catch on. It can be a curse and a blessing to have a friend as perceptive as Hermione.

It turns out he's missed the entire ceremony while he was staring at Malfoy; the Sorting Hat has already been removed and McGonagall is stepping forward to address the school.

"Welcome back to Hogwarts," McGonagall begins, purveying the students with a tight smile. "A few words before the feast; this past year has been one of the hardest in Hogwarts - and indeed, wizarding - history. We have been broken and we have suffered a great deal of heartache."

McGonagall wavers and casts a glance at the teacher's table, towards the headmaster's chair, silently acknowledging where Dumbledore and Snape once sat. She stands up straighter, her voice growing stronger.

"Yet we go on, as is our duty. We are here to safeguard your future. When threatened, we rise up. Again, and again, and _again_. Together. Look around to your neighbours. We are not four houses in competition with each other. We are _united_. Remember that; the house in which you are sorted may be where you will reside but make no mistake, we are all of us family."

And that's it. No little joke, as Dumbledore may have done. No announcements for the coming year. When McGonagall returns to her place, there is an array of reactions. Some of the older students who fought in the battle are softly weeping for their fallen friends, some clap and cheer as loud as they can, others simply have no idea how to react to the words at all, dazedly staring about the room.

Ron lets out a low whistle, "Blimey - no messing about with McGonagall, is there?"

"It's not her style to beat around the bush." Harry points out, reaching for a spoon to dollop the suddenly materialised mashed potato onto his plate. "When has she ever said more than she has to?"

"I think it's incredibly smart of her to focus on being united." Hermione says, neatly spiralling spaghetti around her fork. "There's more to rebuilding than just stone and wood; we're rebuilding our society. After being fractured for so long, I think starting afresh and together is the most important thing right now." 

"I thought maybe she'd say a bit about you, if I'm being honest." Ron confesses to Harry. "You know, on account of you obliterating You-Know-Who from the face of the earth. In this room. Literally right over there where the Hufflepuff table is." 

Harry snorts, nearly choking on a piece of broccoli. He takes the glass of water Ginny is sliding across to him and gulps half of it down. "No complaints from me there, mate. Going through it once was enough."

The surreality of returning to a normal schedule washes over Harry. He's had the summer to adjust but that time was spent at the Weasley's, where Fred's death permeated every inch of the home. There had been no routine. Everyone had ambled around, startled when they bumped into one another. Meals were sometimes held in a solemn bubble, other times that bubble would burst and they could remember Fred where laughter and tears were never separable. The kitchen was frequently crowded but a chair beside George was always left vacant, and none of them could decide whether the sight was a comfort or not.

Being here though, where some of the students are young enough to have been spared of the fight, the atmosphere is tangible yet ineffable. Many can walk the halls and see just that - light spilling through archways and unmarked stone, just another empty classroom - but others recall the harrowing memories of unmoving bodies and nearby screams, of prowling Death Eaters in their skeletal masks.

The sadness here is diluted. Harry feels guilty for being glad about that.

When the last scraps of dinner are cleared away and pudding has been all but demolished, Harry pushes the crust of his treacle tart around on the shining plate in deliberation. He doesn't look up when he speaks.

"Do you think it was too soon? To come back, I mean."

Hermione leans forward in her seat, restlessly rubbing the palms of her hands together as she surveys the room.

"No, I don't." she says slowly. "I think if we'd come back a year from now, it would still be just as painful. I think I want to - to heal and replace last year with something better."

Everyone around them has started rising to their feet, the wide-eyed first year students already being shepherded out of the hall by their respective prefects. Harry stands up and stretches, fingertips reaching towards the familiar starry sky above them.

Some things aren't the same. Neville, Seamus and Dean all opted out of McGonagall's open invitation for students to return and resit their previous year. At Fred's funeral, Dean had mentioned to Ginny that he couldn't face coming back. He said he planned to study Art History at Muggle university instead and Seamus had elected to go with him. 

Neville frequently keeps up correspondence with Harry and the others; he's taking a year to travel abroad to study foreign magical plants and their properties. Harry has already gotten postcards from China, India and Egypt, all accompanied by a moving photograph of Neville pointing with glee towards his new favourite shrub. Harry really hopes Neville has come away from his experience with the last one okay, he hadn't appeared to notice the vines already winding around his ankle...

With the three of them gone, it's only going to be Harry and Ron in their dormitory this year. Harry watches Malfoy smooth out the front of his robes at the Slytherin table across from them and wonders what his prospects of sharing dormitories will be like - if anyone will even be _willing_ to sleep in the same room as an ex- Death Eater. 

In terms of press coverage, Malfoy is beaten only by Harry himself. Where Harry had been held up as the paradigm of goodliness and virtue, Malfoy would be cast as his antithesis. They referred to him as _corruptible_ , a menace who had blagged his way through school due to the influence of his infamous father. His trial had been reported in minute detail, barely a day went by where his name was not printed side by side with Harry's. Comparisons between the glaring differences in their traits had been continuously made, none of them in Malfoy's favour.

The trial had split the wizarding world; the minority in support of him often insisted that he was too young, a wizard barely of age, to be convicted. Yes, he had been a Death Eater but he had joined under duress - how many would be able to withstand personal threats from the Dark Lord and _not_ bend to his will? It was an argument convincingly used in his defence which had ultimately led to his acquittal.

The majority had not been happy to see him set free without so much as a year in Azkaban. There were cries of corruption, of bias. Lucius Malfoy may be locked up but his generous donations over the years to establishments, to the _Ministry_ itself had not been forgotten. It had been used as a bargaining chip for his only son and they had gotten away with it.

There had been a lull in news of Draco Malfoy after the outrage had died down, until of late. The word had begun to spread from unnamed sources that he would be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for his final year. Harry expects the backlash will be tenfold what Malfoy had received during his trial.

Harry can't help but pity him, watching as a grim Professor Slughorn meekly approaches Malfoy. Harry and his friends, lagging behind the rest of their house, are close enough to overhear the unsteady quiver of his voice. 

"Ah - um, Draco, m'boy? A word about the coming term, if you will?"

Malfoy turns and looks down on the short, bald wizard with faint surprise but he doesn't cast the expected withering glare which Harry has grown accustomed to seeing. There is no smarmy comment for the benefit of his friends - there are no friends around him to hear such a joke. He simply bows his head and slinks after Slughorn.

So this is the difference Harry had tried to place; the sheer lack of ego which Malfoy normally carries with him like a shining talisman. Instead, he's trying to achieve the impossible. He's trying to go unnoticed for the first time in his life. Of course, Harry has always made it a point to be aware of anything Malfoy is doing. He's fine-tuned to his actions on a level that would scare him if he really sat and thought about it.

Ron comes up between Harry and Hermione, slinging each arm around their shoulders. "A word alone with Slughorn? I'd almost feel sorry for him if he weren't the world's biggest prat."

"I imagine it's going to be an interesting year ahead of us, don't you think?" Hermione asks, turning to Harry.

"Yeah." Harry says, eyes following the slouching figure of Draco Malfoy as he is surreptitiously led out of the Great Hall by Slughorn. The sound of whispers, volatile and sinister, grow louder as he leaves the room. "Yeah, I reckon you're right about that, Hermione."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there's this. If I'm being honest with you, I have no idea how long this is going to be (at the moment, I have an idea of 8 chapters from start to finish) but it's not likely going to be over 50,000 words. Also, I'm uploading as I write instead of my usual finish-it-all-with-no-pressure-over-2-years-then-upload-it-in-one-go thing so I'm not sure how often updates will be.
> 
> But I will try my best! I totally used to do this all the time. Surely it's still in me to do it, right?
> 
> Thanks for reading as usual!


	2. Chapter 2

_Silver moonlight streams down in ribbons from the oppressive dark canopy of the Forbidden Forest overhead. Harry takes a moment longer for himself at the outskirts of the clearing, straining to hear the sound of creatures deep within the forest, sparing a final minute for the sake of his life. Instead, all he can hear are the Death Eaters prowling a few feet away, Voldemort's quiet murmurs to Bellatrix._

_He steps forward, announcing his arrival, drowning out the voice inside of him screaming to run away even as the Death Eaters encircle him. It has never been one of Harry's strong suits. He has always ran_ toward _._

_Something close to satisfaction passes over Voldemort's snake-like face; he had begun to doubt his instincts, Harry had heard him confess as much to his followers. He had started to think Harry would not show after all. He can never understand that love will always act as the drive for every single one of Harry's actions._

_"Harry Potter. The boy who lived."_

_The words are said to mock. It's a title Harry has grown accustomed to hearing over the years, yet he feels no attachment to it. He's repulsed by the wonder with which the words are often spoken. That boy and Harry are two separate entities: one, a magical anomaly who approaches near-mythical status and the other, just an orphan who never had the chance to know his parents. To find out secondhand the way in which he had been loved by them has always been a struggle for him._

_For Lord Voldemort though, the boy who lived serves but one purpose; a gloating reminder of his only failure. Here at last is his chance to rectify that mistake. He raises his wand, looking at Harry with analytical regard, curiosity bettering him._

__"This is what you wanted. Get it over with, just do it." _Harry thinks, a silent dare to Voldemort._

_The Dark Lord's lips curl into a crude smile, a mouth not designed for such a gesture. Voldemort does not bother with theatrics - the illusion of a fair duel - the way he had done in the graveyard three years ago and Harry is oddly relieved about that. After all of these years, Voldemort appears to have finally had enough of playing this game._

_Harry makes himself look into those red eyes and stares down the man culpable for every moment of agony he has had to endure. He is no longer afraid of him; the only terror Harry feels is for the vast unknown ahead of him, for his friends who will have to take up this burden and finish what he cannot. This is the last way in which he can help them._

_He watches Voldemort speak the curse, finding it fitting that the same spell used on countless victims will be the very same to bring about his own ruination, and embraces the rush of green light for the second - and last - time in his life._

Harry jolts upright, one hand blindly reaching in the darkness for the handle of his wand. It is only when the unnerving silence is punctuated by Ron's soft snores that Harry realises he is not in the Forbidden Forest but safe in his bed instead.

He waits for the pounding of his heart against his chest to ease, pressing shaky fingers against the sweat-slicked small of his back before dropping heavily onto the mattress again. It had seemed so real. He can still smell the damp earth and moss, his eyes _still_ dazzled by the green light.

It's still early hours of the morning, one quick glance at his watch informs him of that but there's no getting back to sleep now. He wonders briefly at waking Ron to tell him about the nightmare, almost immediately deciding against it to spare himself of one of Hermione's pitying looks in the morning.

He slips out of bed and noiselessly gathers a few items; his glasses on the bedside table, a jumper, his wand, the Marauder's Map, then sneaks downstairs to the common room.

It's deserted, a chill in the room, the last sparks of warmth from the dying fire close to sputtering out entirely, enough to make Harry shiver in his now damp bed-clothes. He takes a seat in his favourite squishy armchair near the fireplace to soak up what little heat he can and raps his wand against the parchment of the Map, burying his chin into the collar of his jumper.

" _I solemnly swear I am up to no good._ "

The Map springs to life, clusters of sleeping dots gathered in dormitories and offices materialising like spilt splotches of ink. Harry can't deny it, the dream has spooked him. He peruses the Map, watching for any signs of movement, irrationally looking out for the names of Death Eaters out of sheer paranoia. 

There isn't much; he spots Mrs. Norris patrolling the lower corridor on the first floor, then there's Peeves zipping around the fourth floor boy's bathroom causing who knows what sort of mischief.

Then one dot catches his eye. There is only one Death Eater whose name shows up on the Map and he isn't in the Slytherin common room.

Draco Malfoy is inexplicably lurking in the Muggle Studies storeroom.

Harry stares hard at that dot, chewing the skin around his thumb as he ponders over what to do. There's the old itch that flares up whenever Malfoy is concerned, one that he knows will not be subdued until he's sought out all the answers to his questions, and Hermione and Ron aren't here to talk him out of it.

What can Malfoy be doing in the early hours of the morning, in the _Muggle Studies_ department of all places? Harry doubts that he's turned over a new leaf to be exploring the Muggle way of life. At night. By himself. He'd been wandering around on his own like this before when he'd slipped quietly to the Vanishing Cabinet and let in Voldemort's most loyal.

He can't help it. After the dream, he can't ignore his suspicions. Harry makes a decision, cramming the Map into his pocket and takes off through the portrait hole. Hermione definitely won't be happy with him if she finds out about this.

"Wait - wait! Where are you going?! _It's past curfew._ " the Fat Lady cries after him in indignation.

Harry spins on the spot, walking backwards even as he replies. "Uh - it's urgent. I need to look at something."

"It's three o'clock in the morning. I insist you come back here right now!"

"Sorry." Harry says sheepishly. "I won't be long."

The Fat Lady smooths down the front of her pink silk dress and narrows her eyes at him, "Beg your pardon but the length of time in which you are gone does not negate the fact that you are out of bed when you shouldn't be! I'll be informing the headmistress of this!"

"Well, um - I - " Harry stutters, his mind on Draco. Who knows what he could be doing while Harry is stuck up here in a dispute with a painting. "Look, I'm really sorry but I have to go."

Leaving the Fat Lady's protests behind in the darkness, Harry keeps a close eye on Malfoy, periodically pulling out the Map to see if anything has changed.

The journey down to the first floor - Mrs. Norris now safely removed to the dungeons - is uneventful. The peacefulness of the corridors shouldn't concern him the way it does but the last time the school had been this silent, people were attending to the injured and dead in the Great Hall. Harry wonders if Hogwarts will ever look the same to him again; can he ever separate the terrible things that had happened here from the place where he finally found a home after the neglect of Privet Drive?

Outside of the Muggle Studies classroom, Harry sees nothing untoward, testing the handle to find that Malfoy had the foresight to lock the door behind him. It's easy to sneak through with a whispered _Alohomora_ and a silencing charm on the creaking door, grateful for his sock-clad feet as he tiptoes across the stone floor to the storeroom door on the farside of the room.

Harry presses an ear against the wood, listening intently to the low murmuring coming from within. He consults the Map, seeing that Malfoy is bizarrely still alone but talking to himself, and carefully cracks the door ajar to allow a slither of space for him to observe from.

The sight which greets him is enough to stop him dead in his tracks.

Malfoy is kneeling in the aisle between shelves of slightly outdated Muggle appliances, a slumped figure between the narrow corridors stuffed with old toasters and ancient television sets. More surreal and disturbing is the person half concealed in the shadows before him, the unmistakable blonde hair and steel eyes turning Harry's blood to ice. Harry remembers those eyes staring back at him from the depths of a mask and is no less unnerved to see them here directed at Draco.

"Please, father!" Draco whines, his entire body trembling. Draco's hands are hooked onto the tops of his thighs like claws, fingers digging into his legs hard enough to draw blood. "Please."

How can Lucius Malfoy be here? He should be under lock and key in Azkaban. Harry glances over his shoulder, pure terror tricking him into seeing the crumbling rows of headstones of the Little Hangleton graveyard, the glassy-eyed expression on Cedric's face illuminated by the cool blue of a portkey. He squeezes his eyes shut and open again, relief flooding through him when the illusion fades and there is nothing besides a school room empty of all but desks. 

"I should have known you were not up to the task. It was foolish of me to expect anything more."

Lucius's voice comes soft but undeniably piercing into the quiet room. Harry shudders at the sound, flinching against the memory of that voice goading him, demanding he hand over the prophecy at the Ministry.

Draco is gasping, doubled over, his hair falling about his face."I'll try harder next time, I promise." 

"Next time?" Lucius laughs coldly, fingers lightly tapping against his cane. "Do you think I would be so stupid as to let you nearly ruin everything again? No. I think not, Draco..."

"I'm s-so sorry, father. I'm sorry."

"Pathetic," Lucius says smoothly, unsheathing the wand hidden within the cane, his resolve hardening. "It looks as if I'm going to have to show you what needs to be done."

"Please," Draco is sobbing hard now, his face glistening with tears. "Please, don't."

"STOP!" Harry leaps out from behind his cover, not for a second thinking about the fact he's rushing to _Malfoy's_ aid or the impossibility of his father being here in the castle.

Draco's face flashes from shock to confusion to anger in a manner of seconds, "P-Potter?"

Harry doesn't hesitate, he just _acts_. One hand reaches out to point his wand squarely at Lucius, the other is planting itself on Malfoy's shoulder and shoving as hard as it can to get him out of the way. Draco is more solid than he looks; he stays firm in his place, a string of his furious complaints already lost to a preoccupied Harry.

Lucius Malfoy falters the second his eyes land on Harry, taking a step closer but he doesn't fire any spells. Every muscle in Harry's body is straining against the confines of his skin, waiting for the opportunity to spring into action. Harry has bested Lucius before, he can do it again.

Harry doesn't take his eyes or wand off of Lucius Malfoy, not even as he morphs into a dementor.

"Hold on, you're a - you're a boggart?" he says in disbelief, even as the undeniable screams of his mother fill his ears and his vision clouds around the edges. "What in the - "

"What do you think you're doing, Potter?!" Draco distant cry comes from somewhere behind Harry but he ignores that, trying to make sense of everything. "Get out of the way, you idiot. This is _mine_."

"A boggart." Harry breathes to himself in confirmation, beyond relieved by the knowledge that he isn't taking on Lucius Malfoy. Safe. Everyone is still safe.

"ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME, POTTER!"

"No." Harry says bluntly, re-focusing on the boggart with a new determination. " _Riddikulus_!"

With its swirling robes starting to twist around its ankles, the dementor stumbles and trips backwards despite its best efforts to glide effortlessly toward Harry. Harry casts again and again, not stopping until the boggart-dementor is flailing around, its clumsiness sending a telephone flying off a nearby shelf. Harry spots his chance, sending the boggart flying backwards into the open cupboard behind it before throwing himself at the sliding bolt to lock it shut.

When Harry rounds on Malfoy, he is slowly rising to his feet with deliberate control. Draco is far from his usually crisp exterior; he pushes back a fistful of typically bright hair darkened from sweat, tear-track stains running down the length of his grey cheeks. He hasn't even changed out of his uniform yet, only loosened his tie and pulled open the top buttons of his shirt. For all of this, he still addresses Harry as if he has merely interrupted a moment of quiet contemplation.

"I had that handled, Potter." Draco says through gritted teeth.

Harry nearly laughs at that. "What were you doing with that boggart?!"

"I said, I had it handled." Draco repeats firmly, glowering at Harry beside a stack of Muggle magazines. 

Harry picks up the now broken telephone and casts a quick _Reparo_ over it. "Yeah, I could tell from the way you were flattening yourself on the ground there. What were you hoping to do, Malfoy? You don't even have your wand."

It is no secret that Draco Malfoy is only allowed access to his wand during lessons. It had been a stipulation from the Ministry of Magic for his permittance to attend; once the news had broken, the public were unsurprisingly outraged that he was to be allowed in the same school as their children but McGonagall refused to budge on the matter despite their protestations. She remained adamant that any student wishing to attend had her full support. The Ministry had no choice - though they were hardly hesitant - and laid down some conditions for his attendance.

The removal and usage of his wand until absolutely necessary was their main demand but Draco had accepted it with a level of good grace that had stunned Harry at the time; to have his wand unceremoniously taken from him at the gates by a Ministry official in front of other students, to know that it was to be kept securely in McGonagall's office except for lessons. Harry remembers losing his own wand, the ugly sensation of feeling vulnerable in the wizarding world without it. His fingers grip around the wand a little tighter.

Draco takes an unconscious step forward but Harry doesn't react to it, entirely unthreatened by Malfoy. The both of them realise Draco's position in that instant, Draco's cheeks shifting to pink. "How did you find me?!" 

"I couldn't sleep, I decided to take a walk." Harry says coolly, not about to bring up the Marauder's Map. "I heard a noise and came to see what it was."

It isn't technically a lie. He's been struggling to sleep at all lately and when he does, he falls into some uneasy dream that will always wake him before too long. He can shut his eyes and see all the things he desperately hopes to forget: Hagrid's hut burning up, the sound of Fang howling inside. The Weasley's huddled around Fred's body and knotted together in grief. Hermione whimpering and clutching at a bleeding arm in Malfoy Manor. Sirius falling backwards through the archway in the Department of Mysteries, a surprised smile on his emaciated face. Ron storming out of the tent into the pouring rain. A makeshift headstone bearing Dobby's name, nestled amidst broken shells and seaweed. And always, that flash of green light and the sound of Voldemort's triumph.

Harry can't recall a recent night where he has been allowed to sleep undisturbed by the dreams.

Draco's gaze drags over Harry from head to toe, slow and purposeful, picking up and pulling apart every last detail of him. Harry grows aware of his appearance; his ratty pyjama bottoms, the shrunken Weasley jumper, the mismatched socks Dobby had gifted to him some Christmases ago that Harry will never have the heart to throw out. Harry lifts his chin defiantly, not prepared to let Malfoy belittle him.

"You look like shit, Potter." Draco finally declares without inflection.

Harry looks at Malfoy - _really_ looks at him - and sees the same dark circles beneath his own eyes reflected back at him in Malfoy's face. With his father locked up in Azkaban and his mother a recluse, Draco has had to bear the brunt of the public's dissatisfaction all on his own. Those purple bruises are a confirmation that Draco is simply a boy at the end of his tether, getting by on sheer grit and determination just like the rest of them. It startles Harry to realise that, nearly makes him want to reach up and press his fingers to those bruises for one inexplicable second. Instead, he crams his hands into the pockets of his pyjamas.

"I'm not the only one." Harry points out. "When was the last time you got any sleep, Malfoy?"

Draco would have cursed Harry for that in the past. Instead, he turns on his heel and heads to the door, pausing with a hand clenching the doorknob. He doesn't turn back to look but from Harry's position, he can just make out the obnoxious upturn of Draco's nose, the severe cut of his cheekbone. When Draco next speaks, he lets every ounce of his fatigue pour into the words, the lines of his shoulders drooping as if any energy he had clung onto has suddenly drained from him.

"Do me a favour and just leave me alone for once."

He yanks the door shut behind him so that its crash echoes throughout half the castle, until eventually even the sound of his fading footsteps leave Harry alone in the night with more questions than answers.

***

The next morning, a bleary eyed Harry heads downstairs to the common room to find Hermione and Ron already waiting for him. They spring away from each other the minute they spot him, their hands - clinging together only seconds earlier - finding other tasks to busy themselves with.

"You don't have to do that, you kn-kn-know." Harry says, pausing to expel a tremendous yawn. "I know you're together already - or have you forgotten that inappropriately timed kiss during the battle? Or the entire summer I spent with you at the Burrow? What about the journey here on the Hogwarts Express when you were making those faces at each other?"

"We were _not_ making faces! I - I was actually reading a rather fascinating article on international governments within the magical community and the lack of action taken between countries during times of crisis!" Hermione trills, flustered to the point that Harry nearly takes pity on her. _Nearly._

"Alright, if that's what people are calling it these days..."

His friends share a sheepish look but split apart, Ron taking one armchair and Hermione settling down in the other which Harry had occupied only mere hours before. Crookshanks springs up from nowhere and pounces onto Hermione's waiting lap, to Ron's clear disapproval. Crookshanks is just one of many subjects that Hermione and Ron will never agree on.

"Still takes some getting used to though, doesn't it?" Ron says casually, letting his gangling arms hang down the sides of the chair. "It'd be a bit weird snogging 'Mione all the time with you right there and all."

"Ron!"

Ron holds his hands up, a smirk on his freckled face at Hermione's mortification. "What? I'm just telling it how it is."

Harry drops onto the carpet between them, stretching his legs out toward the fireplace. He watches a lost knight from a wizard's chess game gone wrong running about beneath Ron's seat, bumping into the spindly feet of the armchair.

"I don't mind. I don't want the two of you thinking you have to sneak around behind my back just so you can hold hands without making me uncomfortable." Harry tells them. 

Truth be told, it _had_ taken some getting used to. Their trio had suddenly felt like a pair that Harry was intruding upon when Ron and Hermione had began to date. Somehow, it felt like they were moving on without Harry, starting something that he had no place in. He didn't want to feel that way, he didn't want to be an obstacle in the way of their relationship. 

"Just - just act like I'm not here or something."

"Oh, hey - speaking of sneaking around, what were you doing leaving Gryffindor Tower last night?" Ron says cheerfully, tearing Harry's attention away from the knight.

"What - you know?!"

"Of course I know, you git! I heard you come back in the dormitory around five." 

"I couldn't sleep. I came down here and brought the Map with me but - but then I saw Malfoy - " both Ron and Hermione groan at that. "Look, he wasn't in his own dormitory. He was in the Muggle Studies classroom, so I - "

"Let me guess, you followed him?" Ron says in exasperation, rolling his eyes. "Merlin, I thought you just needed to take a walk to clear your head or something, I didn't think you were back at it tailing Malfoy again." 

"Why _were_ you following him, Harry?" Hermione cuts in shrewdly.

Harry shakes his head. This is why he didn't want to tell them about it. "Come on, stop looking at me like that. I'm not obsessed with Malfoy or anything. It's not my fault he's always acting suspicious."

Ron folds his arms across his chest, resigned. "Well, what was he doing then?"

Harry sighs and recounts the whole story to them, his voice dropping as other Gryffindors begin to trickle into the common room. He omits the part including his nightmare, hoping that they'll be too distracted by Malfoy's part of the tale to pick up on why he couldn't sleep to begin with.

"Really?" Hermione says when he's finished, sitting up straighter with interest, Crookshanks squirming in annoyance at the movement. Harry can practically hear the cogs in her head clunking into action. "A boggart?"

"Yeah - and guess who it took the shape of? His dad."

"Oh... _oh!_ " Hermione gasps, eyes as wide as saucers. 

"I don't trust Malfoy as far as I can throw him," Ron announces. "He's up to something."

Hermione fixes him with a withering look, "Ronald, what malicious reason can he have? There's no one left. It's just him and his mother free, and I doubt they're capable of causing another uprising of Voldemort's supporters."

"Well, I dunno, do I!" Ron says defensively, his ears red. "All I know is that he's a slippery tosser, who knows what he's thinking!"

Harry sighs, rubbing the back of his aching neck. He'd spent the rest of the night sitting up in bed and watching Draco's dot on the Marauder's Map but it didn't stray from its dormitory again. "Why was he trying to face that boggart without his wand? What was he doing with it?"

"I'm not sure." Hermione says, nose crinkling; a tell-tale sign of her frustration at not knowing the answer to something. "Did you ask him?"

"Hermione, I don't know if it's slipped your notice but me and Malfoy aren't exactly best buddies."

It doesn't feel right having told Hermione and Ron about Draco's boggart, especially to be discussing it so flippantly; it feels like a gross intrusion of privacy. Harry knows they're his friends - that they would do almost anything for him - but letting them in on Draco's secret savours too much of a betrayal. He doesn't owe Malfoy anything so why does he feel like this?

"Just let him get on with it then. If he wants to torture himself, he can." Ron points out, twirling his wand around his fingers. "No offence but it's nothing to do with you, mate. You've had enough on your plate to last a lifetime."

"You didn't see the look on his face. He reminded me of - " Harry awkwardly breaks off the sentence, unable to say it. Unable to say, _he reminded me of myself._ There had been something so recognisable in Draco's expression in that Muggle Studies storeroom; some incensed desire to overcome, something that looked so painfully at a loss as to how to do that.

Hermione thankfully lets it slide, "It must be tough for him being here after everything." she offers diplomatically, scratching a purring Crookshanks behind the ears.

"Tough?" Ron says, laughing slightly. "It's not like he's innocent in all of this, Hermione. The bloody moron joined You-Know-Who!"

"Oh, Ron." Hermione tuts, pursing her lips in disapproval. "Don't you remember how awful he looked in sixth year? Or when we saw him in - in Malfoy Manor? He was under a lot of stress. If McGonagall trusts him, then so do I."

Harry stares down at his lap, fiddling with the laces on his shoes. He'd heard those words before about Dumbledore's faith in Snape from so many people yet it had never been good enough for him. Is it possible or right to believe in someone else's judgement so definitively that you disregard your own doubts? Harry had been wrong about Snape for the most part; he'd been a bully, he'd been cruel - but he'd been helping Harry all along. 

No matter how Harry looks at it, he can't see any sinister motive in Malfoy's activities. He barely notices him in lessons, he rarely sees him around the school grounds, it's almost as if he has stopped existing; it's almost as if he's a ghost. Maybe all Draco needs if for someone to help _him_.

Ron harrumphs, wiggling further down into his armchair so that he can kick his feet up onto the foot-rest, sending a few discarded Fizzing Whizzbees there flying onto the carpet. He looks down at Harry on the floor and raises an eyebrow, a conspirative " _can you believe this_?" air to his expression.

"Bloody hell. Stress, you say? I wonder what that's like."

The words lack the bite they might have had a few years prior but it still gives pause to what Harry plans to say next.

"I dunno. It just...bothered me to see him like that." Harry admits, visibly irked, one hand crumpling his hair into catastrophe. That's the part that keeps giving him trouble; why does it bother him? His history with Malfoy is calamitous, they've never seen eye to eye yet he can't ignore the nagging worry that they could be two sides of the same coin.

"So what are you going to do about it, Harry?" Hermione asks briskly, gently nudging Crookshanks from her lap to get ready for breakfast. She starts vanishing any stray cat hairs from her robes with her wand, glancing over at her friend.

"What d'you mean?" Harry says quickly, letting Ron help him to his feet.

Hermione smiles at the question, knowing that he knows _exactly_ what she means. "You have that look on your face. The one that means you're thinking of doing something either incredibly stupid or incredibly noble."

"Oh, blimey. Here we go again." Ron quips, pulling Hermione by the front of her robes to the portrait hole. "Whatever you're planning, it can keep until after we've eaten."

Harry absentmindedly follows his friends, puzzled over this predicament dropped unexpectedly in his lap. He can hardly believe it but he's going to help Malfoy - that much he is certain of - he just wishes he knew _how_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THESE ARE MY CONFESSIONS: by dint of an ongoing battle between me and technology, I lost basically all of my chapter outlines/chunks of stuff I was really freaking happy with for this fic _soooo_ I essentially had to start from scratch. Major bummer, absolutely devastated, we're ploughing on regardless.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worked hard to get this up on my boy's birthday! Happy birthday, Harry, you absolute lad.
> 
> This chapter is by no means perfect but I hope you like it!

Potion residue is everywhere. Hermione - through quick thinking and even quicker movements - has managed to save the bulk of it but the telltale glow around Ron's ears are enough to say that the damage has been done. The rest of the class are tittering in the background, taking Ron's ears from pink to deep scarlet in a matter of seconds.

"Oh dear," Slughorn sighs, peering across the desk to inspect the slightly smoking floor. "Ah, Harry - can you run along to the staff room and find Mr. Filch? He should have some solution for Wilson's problem."

"It's Weasley, sir." Ron interjects a little heatedly, heedless of Hermione desperately trying to tug his singed robes off his shoulders. "I only bloody went and helped defeat You-Know-Who, not like that should be enough to remember my name or anything..." he adds in a dark undertone.

Sometimes, Harry worries that Ron still blames himself for leaving them due to the toll of the horcrux that had been hanging around his neck like a daily noose. It had bothered Harry and Hermione but its effect on Ron had sank deeper into his core, striking at the lingering insecurities he had had about feeling inferior. Harry knows Ron is past the point of jealousy - far from it - but the power that the locket had radiated may have been enough to leave a permanent scar on Ron's soul, planting a new seed of guilt and letting it fester there. Guilt for leaving. Guilt for not being able to spare Hermione from Bellatrix's ruthlessness. Guilt for Fred's death.

Slughorn waves a hand dismissively as he leans towards Harry's simmering potion, "Yes, yes. That's what I said, Wesley. I expect you added too much Erumpent Horn, hmm? Harry? Mr. Filch?"

Slughorn's disregard of Ron hits a nerve with Harry. It's the same sort of attitude which had incensed Ron only a few years prior; his fear of being overlooked has always been something Harry has struggled to relate to. Harry, who had spent his former years desperately wishing to be ignored by the Dursley's and later on, the whole wizarding world. Harry, who still remains a constant spot of attention in the public's awareness regardless of what he does. Just because Harry can't relate to Ron's struggle doesn't mean that it isn't valid.

Ron deserves to be known by his name. He deserves to be seen.

"Of course, Professor. I'll see what he can do about _Ron's_ accident." Harry emphasises, dodging the playful kick swinging his way from Ron when he leaps up from his stool. Hermione is practically beaming from ear to ear, reaching across to press a hand against Harry's arm.

"Hmm, yes - hmm. Ron, my mistake." Slughorn blunders, looking mildly embarrassed. "Ah, and Harry? Tell Mr. Filch to bring that mop of his, will you? I rather believe we're going to need it."

"Sure thing, sir." Harry says just as Ron mouths " _git_ " at him to tease from behind his cauldron, grinning when Hermione catches sight of it and elbows Ron in the ribs. She's starting her lecture about the requirements of proper and respectful focus during brewing and the stories of countless wizards and witches who have injured themselves from goofing around over potions, and he's grateful to be slipping out of the classroom for a reprieve.

The fumes from the cauldrons had been starting to get to him anyway; they had drawn out a steady prickling at his temples, the pain spreading across his forehead until it felt like his brain was ready to explode from his skull. He'd clapped a hand over his scar out of instinct and fear, and only when he saw the look of sheer panic on Ron and Hermione's faces at this motion did he realise that the headache was not caused by lightning bolt scar at all. 

The action had been careless - automatic - but Harry doesn't require the reminder that Voldemort's threat is still felt. He'd been presumed dead before now, it would be a hard thing to expect the wizarding community to completely accept that truth.

When he arrives at the staff room door, he's half hoping that Filch isn't there so that he can wonder the castle for a while looking for him to give this headache a chance to pass.

"Uh, sorry to interrupt but - " Harry begins, glancing about the staff room in search of the caretaker. Beyond its large circular table and several chintz armchairs, the shelves lined with tasteful clutter and outdated Witch Weekly magazines, his eyes come to land on the familiar sight of the wardrobe they'd encountered in third year during Remus's lesson on boggarts. 

Harry stares at that wardrobe and has the strangest sensation. He feels like he's aged a lifetime since that moment four years ago, how different everything had been; how can he be that same boy whose misdirected anger almost manifested into something too terrible to comprehend? He'd wanted to kill Sirius in petty revenge when he thought he had been the one to betray his parents simply because he'd been told - by the papers, by friends, by everyone - that he was bad. He's learnt his lesson that nothing ever really is what it seems.

The thought of Remus stops him dead, it's too painful to recall. He remembers the gentle encouragement they'd all received from him, the success they'd had at confronting their fears and overcoming them, the incredible progress Neville had made just from the guiding hand of a caring teacher - one who had looked at him and seen the potential hiding away beneath his nervous exterior.

"Ahem, Potter? Did you need something, boy?"

Harry shakes himself out of the daze and apologises to Professor Sprout, turning to Filch who is sat in a quiet nook of the room, the only other figure in the room. "Mr. Filch? Professor Slughorn needs you in the dungeons. There's been an accident - some potion spilt on the floor - he says to bring your mop."

"Blasted students, always making messes." Filch wheezes, slamming his mug down onto the table, its thick brown contents spilling out across the surface. Harry has to dive out of the way to stop Filch from barreling right into him. "Come, my sweet. There's work to be done..."

Mrs. Norris stretches out, clawing softly at the thick carpet before she slinks out through the door after Filch but Harry's attention is already turned back to the wardrobe, his mind humming with plans and what-if's.

"Are you alright there, Potter?" Professor Sprout calls, her voice booming. She always has a way of shouting every sentence even if you're standing right next to her. Her boots, lined thick with dried mud and leaves, are kicked up onto an empty chair. Transfixed, Harry watches as she clacks her shoes together to expel some more dirt onto the floor. "School year coming along nicely? Hope you're cracking on with that essay I set you on Monday."

Harry doesn't even want to begin getting into that with her. He's already backing out the door, his answer trailing off as he slips around the corner. "Oh - uh - yeah, real great - yeah. I should probably get going. I have Potions and Professor Slughorn will be wondering where I am, so...uh..."

He doesn't rush back to class though. Instead, he idles, letting thoughts swirl around his head uninterrupted by Slughorn's incessant chatter or Hermione tutting in his ear whenever he begins to daydream. Seeing that wardrobe has struck Harry down with an idea; perhaps it might turn out to be a fruitless one but he can't dislodge the image of Draco crying on his knees out of his brain. Maybe Draco, like Sirius, needs to be seen from a new perspective. He feels like he owes Draco to at least try.

Harry reckons his best chance of catching Malfoy is just after dinner, where he's prone to slip away before pudding arrives so that he can beat the rest of the school out of the hall while they're distracted. It's not exactly the best plan, he highly doubts Draco will be thrilled at being cornered but he has no other choice - the boy just can't be found alone throughout the rest of the day.

So Harry waits. He watches Draco like a hawk through the evening meal, hardly touching his steak and chips, occasionally offering reactions to conversation so Ron and Hermione don't jump down his throat for not seeming like himself.

"I honestly can't believe you, Ron." Hermione reprimands over her stew. "You had _days_ to write up on Conjuration. Did you even read the first three chapters of _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ or were you just hoping you could coast by on my notes because I'm your girlfriend?"

Ron is sulking, stirring the last dregs of his shepherd's pie around on the plate, squashing peas with the back of his fork. "No! I'll have you know I've been coasting by on your notes for years now..."

"Well, it's just too bad, I'm afraid. I'm Head Girl, I have to set an example to the younger students."

Ron laughs incredulously, "Hermione, no one will even know if you let me borrow your notes if you don't tell them!"

"It's a matter of principle! Harry - Harry, tell him! You've written your own notes, haven't you?"

Harry nods without taking his eyes off Draco delicately crumbling chunks of bread into his soup. "Mmm."

"See!" Hermione bristles, slapping a palm onto the table. "See, Ron? Harry isn't making excuses."

"Don't bring Harry into this. Besides, he's better at Transfiguration than I am."

"Maybe if you applied yourself - "

"I show up to class, don't I?! Hermione, all I wanted to do was look over your notes to see if I missed anything out in my own. It's hardly cheating, is it?"

Hermione pushes her plate away and folds her arms across her chest. She has that gleam in her eye, the one that comes about either when she's about to get _really_ serious about their education or when she's standing on a foot-stool in the common room trying to recruit more people for S.P.E.W. She shakes the hair from her face and turns to throw the full weight of disapproval in Ron's unassuming direction.

"I just thought that by now you'd have learnt how to take proper notes. I think this is a lesson long overdue for you, Ronald."

"Merlin." Ron groans, throwing himself down onto the table in mock despair just as dinner is cleared away. He grumbles into the table top, accepting Ginny's consolatory pat on the head. "You know what? Forget I asked. I'll manage with my own - or Harry will let me borrow his, won't you Harry?"

Harry isn't listening; Draco is getting to his feet, inconspicuously removing from the Slytherin table and heading towards the doors. Harry jumps up, scrambling to swing his bag onto his shoulders and climb over the bench at the same time. 

"Where the hell are you going?" Ron calls after him, leaning out into the aisle to stare after Harry hurrying away. He's loud enough that several people have turned their heads. "Pudding is coming!"

"Um - you two carry on, I'll catch up with you after. I was just thinking, turns out I haven't written those notes yet after all."

"Ha! _See, Hermione?!_ " Ron says in satisfaction, celebrating by dumping custard on his apple pie while Hermione silently glowers beside him.

Malfoy is fast. The ends of his robes are whipping out of sight through the passage to the dungeons just as Harry jogs out of the Great Hall. He has to take the winding steps that sink down below the castle three at a time, the temperature growing noticeably colder the lower he goes. He only catches up with Malfoy when they're in the corridor that leads to the Slytherin common room.

"Hey - HEY, MALFOY! WAIT!"

Though brackets line the walls, the corridor is still uncommonly gloomy and dark, the stone walls tinged green and glistening with slime. It's light enough to fully display the hostility on Draco's face when he turns to see Harry running after him.

"For fuck's sake, Potter." Draco swears in exasperation, bone-white hands grasping the straps of his bag as if it's the only thing keeping him hinged to control. "I thought I told you to leave me alone."

Harry is panting and has to brace his hands on his knees, "I - have a - proposition - for you."

Draco falters, the thin lines of his mouth turned down in a sneer. "What are you _talking_ about?"

"Let me help you with the boggart."

Draco looks at him like he's out of his mind - then like he wants to punch Harry. He glances around the corridor but they're alone. "You don't mention that. Ever."

"Look, I don't know what you're trying to do but I can teach you how to fight it." 

"I don't want your charity, Potter. No deal."

"Maybe not but you look like you _need_ it." Harry counters. 

"I really don't - "

"Yeah, I really think you do."

Draco shoves his palm hard against Harry's chest, sending him stumbling into the wall. "I said no deal, Potter." He hisses, staring at Harry for a long minute, the sound of their mingled breathing loud in the dungeon corridor. 

The two boys glare at each other the way they have countless times before, where threats and hexes were not only imminent but inevitable and this time, there are no teachers to stop them. Slowly though, Draco comes back into himself, taking a deliberate step back while shaking his head as if to clear the thoughts settled like dust there. Harry doesn't know what's happening until Draco starts to walk away, wand hand flexing in the absence of its weapon.

"Come off it, Malfoy. Stop being so bloody proud! You're not going to get far on your own!"

When Draco persists to act like Harry has suddenly ceased to exist, racing as if hounds were snapping at his heels to the Slytherin common room, Harry resorts to his last chance.

"WHAT IF I SAID I COULD GET YOUR WAND BACK?"

Draco's slouching figure comes to a sudden halt. His head snaps around. "You can't possibly do that." His voice is barely above a whisper but Harry hears the reluctant hope in the statement, that hateful acknowledgement that if anyone could achieve such a feat it would be Harry Potter.

It's no guarantee but it's the only thing Harry can think of to entice Draco into the offer.

"I might if I tell McGonagall I'm going to tutor you in free periods."

"The effects of the Killing Curse seem to be finally taking hold of you, Potter. There's no way she would agree to that."

"She might." Harry says coolly. "You have to stick to it though. I'm not doing it if you decide it's not worth your time."

Draco wrestles with some internal conversation for a brief moment, then all of a sudden slings his bag off his shoulders and onto the floor in a clatter, marching back to Harry until he's almost nose to nose with him. Harry tries to straighten up as best he can but the top of his head still barely clears Draco's chin.

"What exactly makes you think that _I'd_ say yes?" he breathes, grey eyes jumping between Harry's. Harry can probably count every small freckle on Draco's cheekbones if he was inclined to do so. 

"Because I know you," Harry says with confidence, tipping his head back against the wall so that he can match Draco's stare with ease. He surveys him beneath heavy lids, rather enjoying the slow flush of red creeping into Draco's complexion, the twitch in his jaw that lets Harry know he is right. "I know how badly you want your wand back. I know that whatever is going on, you're desperate to beat that boggart and at the moment, that's more important to you than hating me."

Draco takes a step back. Then another, and another until his back hits the opposite wall across from Harry. He thrusts his hands into his pockets, crossing one long leg in front of the other, the tone of his voice cooler than the corridor itself. With his pale skin and white hair, he might as well be forged from ice and snow, distant and unreachable as an iceberg.

"Presumptuous, Potter, to think you could know me at all. A schoolboy rivalry hardly provides the grounds for personal acquaintance. You and I might as well be strangers."

"I reckon there's always been more to us than that, Malfoy. So what's it going to be? Will you let me help you?"

Draco tilts his head, squinting at Harry like he can't completely make him out in the dark. Minutes crawl by like this, enough for Harry to start fidgeting under the intensity of it, until finally Draco lets out a sigh so quiet Harry isn't at all sure he'd even heard the sound. Draco pushes off from the wall, stopping only to retrieve his bag.

"Fine. Let's try it your way, Potter." he doesn't look back as he says this, carelessly dropping the words behind him for Harry to collect if he so wishes to.

***

The next afternoon while the rest of the school are reviving themselves over lunch, Harry and Draco meet outside of the headmistress's office.

"It truly astounds me that you've talked me into this." Draco drawls, shifting his face out of a patch of sunlight pouring in through a nearby window, leaning beside the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the office.

"It has to be done. How else are we going to get your wand?" 

It had been difficult getting Malfoy to accompany him to see McGonagall but it was a necessity; Harry had dropped a note in Draco's porridge that morning detailing the plan, only to be tracked down and whispered furiously at by Draco in the boy's bathroom about secrecy and boundaries. It had taken the entire fifteen minute break before the bell rang again for lessons to convince Draco that it would only work if the both of them showed an amicable front to McGonagall or the deal would be off.

"Well? I presume we're here for more than idle chatter with one another. What are you waiting for? What's the password?"

Harry awkwardly glances at the gargoyle, "Uh."

Draco allows himself one lonely breath of a derisive laugh. "And this, our grand saviour? Unable to decipher his way into his favourite teacher's office?"

"Shut up, Malfoy. It's usually something to do with sweets - or it was when Dumbledore was headmaster." Harry adds in a mumble.

"Let us hope that McGonagall is sentimental then." Draco says sarcastically, rolling his eyes in despair.

"Would you just - look, let's just try and guess our way in. It's worked for me before now."

"Tell me, is this how you vanquished the Dark Lord? A bunch of shoddy guesswork and dumb luck?"

"Something like that..." Harry mutters under his breath; he briefly ponders over the idea of calling out to McGonagall until she comes down but that's no good, they could be here for hours. Harry runs both hands through his hair over and over again as he thinks, a side effect of stress that he's yet to break out of; he's starting to worry that he'll be bald by twenty if he keeps it up. When he glances across to ask for Malfoy's opinion on getting through, he catches him already staring back, lips slightly parted as if he's been Stunned. "What?"

"Nothing." Draco says quickly with a shake of his head, turning his attention to the gargoyle. He lightly butts the toe of his shoe against the statue. "I can't believe I'm saying this but let's just get this over with and shout passwords at it until it lets us in."

"Chocolate Frog." Harry tries hopefully.

Draco sighs heavily, "Peppermint Toad."

"Jelly Slugs?"

"Acid Pops."

"Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean."

"Merlin, Potter. Who would use that mouthful as a _password_. Fudge Flies."

"Well, I'd rather try it than not! Hold on - she likes biscuits." Harry explains, remembering all of the times he's been hauled to her office only to be confronted by that tartan tin of hers. "Ginger Newts!"

The gargoyle leaps aside, opening up the passage to reveal the spiral staircase. Harry smirks at Draco, who is quick to rearrange his features into something passing as nonchalance when he pushes past and begins the climb up the steps.

The office is much the same as it had been when Dumbledore resided here, the only exception a particularly comfortable looking tartan-clad armchair now situated behind the desk, a mildly surprised Professor McGonagall ensconced within it.

"Mr. Potter." she says slowly, gaze sliding from one unlikely boy to the other."...and Mr. Malfoy." She carefully lays down her quill and looks between them in suspicion though Harry can hardly blame her for that. "I take it that it was the two of you creating that racket outside? To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Harry and Draco drop into the seats she gestures to; Draco perches on the very edge, as if prepared to flee at the drop of a hat. From somewhere within the depths of the many cabinets, soft chimes are drifting out into the circular room, the gentle sounds instantly setting Harry at ease.

"Sorry, Professor. I was wondering whether we could get your permission for something?" Harry says, figuring the best approach is to be direct in the purpose of their visit.

"I would tell you that it depended upon what that something is." McGonagall says shrewdly, peering over her glasses at them. The glance isn't as effective as Dumbledore's was in making you think your mind was being read but it's a close thing.

"Well, we had this idea - " Harry stops when Draco lightly coughs. "Fine, _I_ had this idea. Malf - uh - Draco has been struggling with banishing a boggart lately and I was wondering if you'd let me tutor him?"

"Tutor Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yeah - I mean, yes. With it being N.E.W.T year and everything, I thought it would be - uh - beneficial for him to get to grips with it."

McGonagall arches an eyebrow, an incredible feat based solely off how tightly knotted the bun on her head is. "Potter, I believe we both know a saying that could be applicable in this specific situation regarding talking out of one's backside. Seeing as I am both your teacher and headmistress, I think the more appropriate phrasing for the matter is that I am not entirely positive you are being truthful with me." 

Harry ducks his head, "We'd need his wand to practice, Professor."

"You are aware, as is Mr. Malfoy, that the wand in question is to be kept within my office until Mr. Malfoy requires it for his studies, are you not?" McGonagall asks frankly, settling back into her seat.

"Well, yes but - "

"And that that is a demand - not a request - from the Ministry of Magic itself in exchange for Mr. Malfoy's attendance here?"

"Yes, I know that Professor but I was - "

"So you know that I cannot possibly hand this wand over to Mr. Malfoy myself, otherwise I would be facing the discontentment of not only the Ministry but that of the public as well if it were to ever get out." 

"I told you, Potter." Draco mumbles, getting to his feet, staring anywhere but at the headmistress or Harry. "I told you it would be pointless."

"Mr. Malfoy, I have not yet excused you. Please retake your seat," McGonagall orders, pushing her tartan biscuit tin towards them. "Do have a biscuit, the both of you."

Harry reaches for one on instinct, knowing from his experience of her being Gryffindor's head of house that to refuse would only annoy her more but Draco, quite unused to such treatment, stares at the tin in astonishment. 

"Mr. Malfoy, we don't have all day." she barks, giving the tin a final insistent push closer. Draco grabs one and clutches it in both hands, returning to stare at his feet while McGonagall sits back her chair and scrutinises the two students before her. 

"You are willing to devote free time in helping Mr. Malfoy, Potter?"

"Yes."

"You are both serious about this?"

" _Yes_." Harry repeats forcefully as Draco allows himself one curt nod. "Please, Professor. I've been thinking about what you said at the start of term feast, about all of us being united. This is how I want to do that." Beside him, Draco makes a small sound of disgust in the back of his throat, quiet enough for only Harry to hear. 

Her eyes cut between them again before she reaches down to an unseen drawer in her desk and pulls it open, drawing out the hawthorn wand and laying it on the table in front of Harry.

"Very well. Here you are."

"Just like that? I don't understand, Professor." Harry says, gazing at the wand as if it's a trap McGonagall has set out for them. "You just told us you couldn't give Draco his wand."

"Exactly," she agrees with a small, satisfied smile. "I can't give it to Mr. Malfoy so I'm giving it to you instead, Potter. I'm entrusting _you_ with the wand. Consider this a trust exercise; I want to know what times you are thinking of conducting these lessons and in exchange, I'll do my best to provide you with an empty classroom so that you remain undisturbed. I want to be updated with your progress and if I feel that either of you are even remotely shirking on your side of the bargain, no more boggart lessons. "

Harry takes the wand from the desk, feeling Draco's hungry eyes eating up the transaction. Harry tests the weight of it in his hand, feeling far more comfortable with it than he anticipates. He and this wand still share a bond, it feels at home in his grasp. Harry looks up at Draco's envious face and knows they're both aware of this intimate connection between them.

"Well? I presume you both have homework to be getting on with or do you have any other proposals? Off you trot." McGonagall waves them away, returning to her letter writing. It's only when they're shuffling back to the stone gargoyle that she calls out to them again. "Oh, and Mr. Potter? Mr. Malfoy?" 

For a minute, Harry fears she's changed her mind. He turns back in trepidation.

"I trust that you both know that discretion is key." she says, not bothering to lift her eyes from the parchment. "I would appreciate it if you kept this between yourselves. See to it that you behave responsibly."

Harry might have reassured her himself but for the look on Malfoy's face suggesting the last thing he would ever do is admit to anyone that he is receiving help from Harry Potter.


	4. Chapter 4

Golden sunshine - the kind you only find at dusk in late summer, deep and warm and orange - slices the room clean in half. Harry walks over to the window of the Arithmancy classroom, turning to take it in; McGonagall has made the room available for Draco's first boggart lesson whilst everyone else is at dinner. There's an abundant stack of sandwiches piled high on a platter at Professor Vector's desk, a jug of water and two goblets beside it.

A solid trunk, undoubtedly containing the boggart, awaits rather ominously at the front of the classroom.

The sight of the goblets hits home that Harry will be alone with Draco for the next hour. He hasn't given it much thought to how this is going to go but Ron had certainly made his opinion clear after Harry relayed to his friends everything that had happened since he'd left the Great Hall in pursuit of Malfoy days before. 

Ron told Harry that he was barmy, that willingly putting himself in a room with an armed Malfoy and conducting the entire thing in secret was clearly a lapse in judgement but as long as Harry kept returning to Gryffindor Tower in one piece after their lessons, he'd be begrudgingly alright with it.

Hermione had been less forthcoming besides offering a firm vow of support and a stack of books dedicated to the study of boggarts but that only scared Harry more. For some reason, he didn't want to know what was going on inside her very intuitive head. It isn't like Hermione to keep information to herself.

"Of course he's late." Harry mutters into the empty room, consulting his watch for the fifth time since they'd been due to meet. The hands on the watch seem to move with all the speed of an Impediment jinx but slowly they collect up the seconds until whole minutes pass by.

With nothing else to do but wait, he takes to inspecting the room to divert the peculiar combination of boredom and nerves; he peruses the complicated charts pinned to the walls and finds himself newly relieved that he hadn't let Hermione talk him into taking Arithmancy back in third year, unable to appreciate her enthusiasm for the subject. He inspects the old engravings from students past on the even older desks. He - perhaps a trifle childishly - doodles the clumsy shape of a snitch onto the corner of the chalkboard, and when he checks the time to see it is now a clear half hour from when Malfoy was supposed to arrive, he half contemplates resigning himself to the idea of being stood up and the strangely crushing disappointment at the acknowledgement.

Just as he's about to gather up his things and at the very least a decent handful of sandwiches out of the bargain, a glint of copper catching the dying rays of light across the room draws his eye. 

Harry decides to give Malfoy five more minutes.

It's a gramophone. Tucked neatly into the corner of the room and partially obscured beyond the shelf lined with books covered in symbols Harry can't even begin or want to understand, the gramophone bears a striking resemblance to the one which had occupied Remus's office years before. How or why it came to be in the Arithmancy classroom, Harry can never guess but he drifts towards it, crouching down to run a hand over the ridges in the metal, leaving trail marks and collecting dust across his fingertips for his trouble.

More astonishing is the stack of records sequestered behind it, the peeling labels far too faded and weathered for Harry to make out any signifying words. Unable to resist, Harry carefully picks out one of the vinyl discs and slots it onto the gramophone, gently lowering the needle onto the spinning record with the tip of his forefinger.

It's a muggle song; the quality of the sound is tinny and the blare of the brass instruments distorts and warps but the woman's quivering, hope-laden voice rings out defiantly in spite of it, the song managing to evoke both sorrow and optimism with its promise of meeting again in better circumstances.

Harry's head drops down to his chest, his eyes scrunching shut to ward off the threat of losing his composure altogether. Nobody had ever told him that grieving for people you'd grown used to being around and laughing with and talking to would be different to the way he grieved his parents. That sort of grief is different; his mother and father have always been a mystery to him, all he can ever do is imagine how they might have fitted into their vacant space in his small world. He could _long_ for them but he could never _miss_ them because he'd never known what it was like to be with them.

With others though - with Fred or Remus, with Sirius - it is inconstant. One moment, he'd be able to bear it, he'd grow used to their absence and learn the new foundations of his life - because that is what it is. All this death around him has taken him back to the start, a place where he has to navigate the uncharted territory of living without them there. His life is changed, a new chapter full of blank pages he is yet to find the narrative for. The rest of the time, he just wishes he could let the pages fall back through his grasping fingers to one of the old chapters again.

"What in the name of Merlin is that, Potter?"

Harry starts; he shifts on his heels and finds Malfoy's rangy frame braced in the doorway but he's paying Harry little attention. He's staring at the gramophone in revulsion.

"I dunno, Professor Vector must have left these records here. I thought they'd - " Harry stops. He'd thought they would do what, exactly? Help the mood? Break the tension? Ease them into this unfathomable situation they've somehow landed themselves in? He shuts the music off, the quiet loud in his ears, feeling foolish. "Well, forget about it. Where have you been!?"

A dark look passes over Malfoy's face, "That loathsome caretaker stopped me on the moving staircase. He wanted to know why I wasn't going to dinner with the rest of the school and he refused to believe my note from McGonagall was legitimate. The oaf dragged me all the way to her office and demanded to hear it from McGonagall herself before I was allowed to leave. I suppose you thought I was getting cold feet about our agreement?"

"Wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination though, would it?" Harry says in way of an admission. "You're not exactly chuffed to be here."

"Yes, well, I try to keep my word - especially where my wand is concerned." Malfoy sniffs, unhitching his shoulder from the door frame and crossing the threshold with an attitude similar to leaping off a cliff. "You've remembered to bring it?"

Harry raises an eyebrow and draws out the hawthorn wand, the tingling tremor of energy surging up to meet and welcome his grip. Truth be told, this bond makes him deeply uncomfortable though not because of who the wand belongs to, rather the simple fact that it doesn't really belong to _him_. Harry is quite content with his own, as good as new since he'd fixed it with the Elder wand.

"Has it been working properly for you since you got it back after - well, after?" Harry asks, already knowing what the answer will be.

"Not as well as it could," Draco confirms Harry's suspicions reluctantly, eyes lowering to the wand in the Gryffindor's hand. "Something seems off with it now."

Harry nods. It's an easy enough solution to their problem. "You need to take it from me. Win it."

"I don't have anything to duel you with, Potter. What do you expect me to do? Wrestle it from your grasp like a Muggle? I have standards." Draco scoffs haughtily, putting his hands on his hips.

"That's how I won yours." Harry points out, failing to see how Draco could need the reminder of that day in Malfoy Manor.

Draco stiffens, his cold words dropping rapidly to freezing. "My point is proven."

Harry looks down at his own wand and sets his jaw, swallowing down the petty resistance rising up in his chest.

"Here - use mine."

"Yours?"

"Yes, mine." Harry says with a snap, knowing that he can never tell Ron that he'd handed his own wand over to Draco Malfoy. "This is how you get your wand back. I don't know about you but I'd like to report back to McGonagall with _something_ before our time is up today."

Draco's eyes flit up to Harry's and back down to the offered wand, crossing the room in three strides.

"Alright, if you insist..."

"Nothing too dramatic, Malfoy." Harry warns, wary eyes watching Draco test the unfamiliar weight of the wand. "It doesn't have to be anything fancy, a simple Disarming spell will do it."

"I wouldn't dream of it." he says absently. If Harry hadn't been noticing that the silver stripes on his tie are exactly the same shade as his hair in the darkening room, he might have seen the signs he knows all too well; the subtle change in Draco's stance, his fingers flexing by his thigh, the crease between his thin brows.

He might have recognised that Draco was getting ready to fire a spell at him.

"EXPELLIARMUS!"

If Draco had given Harry time to brace for the attack, it still wouldn't have been enough to prepare him for the force of the spell that strikes him squarely in the chest. It lifts him clean off his feet. His whole body skitters across the floor, coming to an ungraceful stop when he collides with the teacher's desk, the tower of sandwiches threatening to collapse over him. Across the room, Draco neatly catches the spiralling wand with his already outstretched hand, as pleased as his marble face will allow him to look.

"Sorry," Draco says gleefully, not sounding the least bit sorry at all. "I suppose years of pent up frustration and the chance at a rare opportunity does that to one's Disarming spell, even with a borrowed wand. I'll remind you that you did ask for it, Potter."

"Great, cheers for that. I hope you got it out of your system because that's the last time you'll ever get to do that." Harry winces, gingerly probing his skull to check for any bumps. "Can I have my wand back now?"

Draco twirls the wand between his fingers, a contemplative look on his face. "Who would have thought that this twig fought off the Dark Lord's most loyal followers - fought off even the Dark Lord himself..."

"Draco? My wand." Harry presses with urgency, reaching an insistent hand out for it. 

Before Harry is able to dwell too long on the prospect of Draco refusing to comply and how best to deal with that, the boy in question blinks out of his stupor and lightly tosses it back to Harry. "You can't blame me for wondering about it. It felt unnatural casting with it. Its bond with you is too strong, it was trying to resist me."

Harry feels an overwhelming surge of fondness for his ever faithful wand. "Yeah, well - how's your wand feel? Back to normal?"

"As if it never parted with me."

"Good, that's really good. Now you have your wand, do you think you're ready to try out the boggart?"

"I suppose I must." Draco sighs, shrugging off his cloak and beginning to neatly fold it. He catches Harry watching and frowns. "You may not give an owl's hoot about your state of dress but I'm not about to give in to wrinkled clothing for your sake, Potter."

"I didn't say a word." Harry says, stepping up behind the trunk. "Do you remember in third year when Remus Lupin taught us how to fend off boggarts?"

Draco hardly lifts his eyes from the clean lines his hands are making of the cloak and nods, "Vaguely."

"When you see that boggart take the form of your dad, concentrate on turning it into something ridiculous. It's all about facing your fear and laughing in its face, that way it has no power over you." Harry explains in way of refreshing Draco's memory. "Even the things we're scared of the most have limitations to their hold on us. We can grow beyond a lot of our fears, it's just a matter of being ready to do that."

When Draco remains silent, Harry assumes Draco has said all he wishes to on the matter and pushes on. 

"You remember the spell?"

Draco finishes meticulously folding his cloak and rests it on top of the nearest desk. When he turns back, he stares down at the juddering latch of the trunk, the look on his face close to tamped down trepidation.

Despite that, all he says is, "Just get on with it."

A simple tap on the lid of the trunk from Harry's wand causes it to flip open, a blonde head already emerging from its depths, rising tall and imposing before Draco - Draco, who seems to shrink even as the boggart replica of his father steps out of the trunk and regards him with an inscrutable expression.

Harry cannot see much of the boggart from his position and nor does he need to; his focus is directed solely on Draco and his reactions, the noticeable tremor throughout his body as the boggart-Lucius sneers and taunts. Despite Draco's bravado, he can't manage to verbalise the spell. He let's the boggart shout him down at every instance, cowed by its words as if it truly were his father in front of him.

"You're a blemish on our family name." Lucius berates, his hand always gripping the hilt on his concealed wand like a lingering threat. "I'm sick of cleaning up after your mistakes..."

"Concentrate! Remember _Riddikulus_!"

Draco doesn't hear Harry's call. He doesn't appear to have the presence of mind to remember what he is even doing. His newly returned wand slips from his loose grip and clatters onto the floor, rolling away beneath the book shelf. The sun is long gone, its light replaced with creeping shadows that snap tenaciously at Draco's heels.

"I - I try my best - " Draco whispers fearfully to the boggart, face taut. A muscle jumps in his jaw and he's eyeing the door like he's deciding whether it will be worth bolting for.

"And yet your best is never good enough." the Lucius-boggart derides, softly laughing. "You're always trying to play catch up, aren't you? Always second to Potter..."

"Don't listen to it, Draco!" Harry yells. "Remember why we're here!"

"No - I - I don't - "

"Potter has always been a sore spot, from the very first moment he rejected you. I should have expected as much from you, unable to attract even the attention of someone as worthless as a mudblood loving half-blood."

On cue, Draco flushes bright red and grows aware of Harry standing behind the trunk, his gaze shifting minutely beyond the boggart, wide-eyed and aghast to realise that Harry is hearing his worst thoughts pulled violently into reality.

"You never could shut up about him. Always jabbering on about that _scum_ as if his name were fit to be uttered in our home, as if you were - " 

Harry can't stand to hear much more for Draco's sake and steps into the path of the boggart, giving it no time to draw out the cries of his mother or the bright green flash that haunts his dreams to this day. With a deftness that only endless practicing can bring on, he easily overpowers the boggart and guides it back into the safety of the trunk, the latch securing itself back into place so that all the boggart can do is trash about on the inside of its prison.

Harry is first to break the silence, as he knew he would be.

"Are you okay?"

Draco jolts, lifting his eyes from the still rattling trunk. His hairline is itching from perspiration and he's thoroughly annoyed that Harry always looks at him like he's someone to be pitied. "Oh, fuck off. Spare me of that rubbish, Potter."

"The boggart has more influence over you than I thought - "

"What's that supposed to mean?" Malfoy snaps. "Are you saying that I'm weak?"

"No!" Harry says quickly, seriously. "Draco, this is nothing to do with being weak. I do think there's a lot you're keeping from me that we need to talk about though."

"I have nothing I need to say to you."

"No, I don't think so. There's something holding you back and I want to know why."

Draco storms over to retrieve his wand, surprising Harry by dropping down onto his hands and knees to stuff one arm into the dark gap beneath the book shelf, his face obscured by the crook of his elbow.

"Let me make this perfectly clear, Potter. We're not friends. I'm not here to get pally with you, I'm here to sort through my shit and _beat it_ , okay?"

"Fine, you don't want to be friends! I still need to know what's going on inside your head, Malfoy, how else will I be able to help you!"

Draco can't seem to find his wand. His movements and words start to become more frantic. "It may - come as a surprise - to you - but not all of us - were given a pair - of _perfect parents_ \- who would die for us."

"What are you talking about? I never said anything to do with that!" Harry says, coming over to where Draco is crouched, jostling about on the floor. He places a hand on Draco's back - he's not sure why, perhaps to comfort - and for a brief few seconds, he feels the warmth and the dips in his spine there. Until Draco leaps up and away as if he's been burnt by the touch.

"Fucking _don't_ , Potter!" he breathes, pink faced and angry.

"I just - " Harry mumbles, turning instead to point his wand at the gap. " _Accio!_

Malfoy's wand flies out and into his hand. A little embarrassed, he wordlessly offers it in a silent apology. Instead of taking it, Draco grabs onto Harry's forearm and for one wild second, Harry almost mistakes it for an embrace.

"Do you really want to know what my father was like?"

"I - yes. Of course." 

Harry watches the knuckles on Draco's hand grow impossibly white, his fingers squeezing as if to snap Harry's arm in two. 

"It may come as no shock to hear he was hardly a saint."

Draco throws a glance to the trunk - to the boggart concealed within - and decides he suddenly doesn't want to be in the same room as it anymore. He doesn't bother to pick up his things, he passes right by the table with the sandwiches (and ignores the growl rumbling from Harry's empty stomach) and steps right out into the cool corridor, pulling Harry along by a grip so tight that Harry doubts he could shake himself free even if he wanted to.

"Lucius Malfoy was rather exacting in his role as a father." Draco begins conversationally, eerily calm as they stroll through corridors with no apparent destination. "I was always taught that if I wasn't the best, I was a failure. I had to show the world what it really _meant_ to be a Malfoy."

"Do you know it's possible to love someone and yet not like them? Of course not, you've only ever loved those you liked. My father had a very funny way of showing love, you see. He could be moody, petulant in a way but incredibly manipulative. You know that he slipped up with the Dark Lord's diary in our second year? When that stunt backfired, he twisted the blame around on me. He said he'd indulged my childish resentment against you and your friends that day in Flourish and Blotts, that it was my fault for Dumbledore's suspicion turning towards us. If there was a cause for embarrassment, I was usually named as its culprit."

"Oh, but if I did something right I would be praised and spoilt beyond my dreams. He'd buy me whatever I wanted on those days, he'd boast about me to his friends. I often hoped for days like those, Potter, that my father would look at me and everything would feel _right_ for at least a little while longer even though I knew it wasn't real. All I ever wanted was for him to approve of me, I'd have given anything - _done_ everything for him. I very nearly did."

Draco's height offers him an advantage in their walk. Harry would be hard-pressed to keep up with this insistent stride if not for the skeletal hand on his forearm and dragging him mercilessly down twilight lit corridors to who knows where. Somewhere, Ron is probably having fits over the Marauder's Map at the sight of Harry and Draco venturing farther and farther from the classroom.

"At school, the pressure and my desperation only worsened. He'd demand these - these _chores_ from me; to put you and those allied to you in your place. Try out for the Quidditch team - and when that failed, my position was bought with a bribe. Excel as a prefect and aim for Head Boy. I was number one in Slytherin but I always came up short next to Granger or to you - sometimes even Weasley, if you can believe it!"

"Leave Ron alone!"

Draco turns enough as they pass beyond a tapestry concealing a passage so that Harry can see his disparaging eye roll. 

"After the Dark Lord returned, his erratic nature accelerated. Now, I needed to become a Death Eater and fix the impossible and - and kill _Dumbledore_ or else suffer the consequences of thinking that our family could ever stand alongside the Dark Lord and disappoint him. Those were _his_ words in my father's mouth and I near killed myself to achieve that end, lest my entire family be murdered in their own beds."

"I had no idea - I didn't think it was like that for you!"

They come to a halt and Harry dimly recognises it as the very trophy room Draco had once suggested as the location for the wizard's duel which served as a ploy to get Harry and Ron into trouble with Filch. That time seems so innocent to Harry now. Had Draco known all along that they were headed here, was it an unconscious decision or was it a reminder of the things which once felt so important in their small spheres, ignorant to what lay ahead?

"Can you even bring yourself to see it, Potter?" Draco asks, his flint eyes wide and manic, shaking Harry by the arm hard enough to rattle his teeth. "Do you dare imagine the living nightmare of navigating your own home in fear of happening upon the greatest dark wizard of our time? Don't pretend you're any better than I am. You think your path to the brave and true was the only one which held any hardship? That my family were suffering less on our side of the war? Do not presume for one second that we had it easier. You made your choice and we made ours."

Harry's breathing is loud to even his own ears. The vice-like grip on his arm finally disappears and Harry staggers away, rubbing furiously at the place where Draco's hand had slowly started to cut off circulation. He flexes his fingers and catches Draco watching him in the act.

"Bruise easily, Potter?" Draco asks lightly.

"You chose the wrong side - "

"AND I HAVE THE SCAR TO PROVE IT! I got what I deserved!" Draco yells, scarcely caring about the rest of the school winding down for the evening in their common rooms or the prefects that may be patrolling nearby. Draco reaches to pull up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing an expanse of stark white flesh and then, there: the Dark Mark emblazoned on his skin forever. Draco's eyes lift to seek out the lightning bolt scar snaking out from beneath Harry's hair, his gaze as physical as a touch from a finger. "You have yours and I have mine, never forget that. You're not the only one he marked."

Harry can't tears his eyes away from that awful skull. His own scar has always been a nuisance, an instant identifier in a world where he just wants to remain unseen. Even in the Muggle world, he would be teased over the brutal streaks that criss-crossed and snaked down his forehead to his brow, over its peculiarity - Dudley and his friends had made sure of that. Draco's will betray him in a far worse way. People will see that mark and recognise it for what it is: a brand. They will know who he is and what he has done.

"So tell me; is that adequate enough information for you? Are you satisfied with the root of my fear so that we may continue henceforth without you accusing me of holding back? Now run along to your common room, Gryffindor. I'd hate for you to be stuck out here with the like of me."

"Oh, for the love of god." Harry moves abruptly so that he's within touching distance of Draco, holding the wand still in his hand out once more in defiance. If Draco thinks that Harry will play along with this charade, he's sorely mistaken. "You don't scare me, Malfoy."

They are two young boys with a whole war held precariously between them within the single wand. Harry had felt - and still feels - the weight of the wizarding world on his shoulders but Draco had been pinned into an impossible situation by Voldemort, something he will always face ramifications over. The both of them had been chosen ones in their own way, neither asking for such a responsibility and somehow, miraculously, they had come out of the other side bruised and beaten but intact. If Draco can only just reach out, Harry will know that he's not the only person committed to this unplanned alliance.

"I know," Draco says, the fury on his face sliding off to leave a blank mask in its stead and Harry starts to think that he's miscalculated Malfoy, that he's messed everything up - but then, Draco plucks his wand from Harry's fingers. The Dark Mark vanishes with a single swift tug and the soft swish of fabric. "That was always my problem."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soooo sorry that this has taken the longest time to post. So sorry, hope you all enjoy, love you loads.


	5. Chapter 5

Outside of the Transfiguration classroom window, a crack of lightning whips across the black sky, illuminating every inch of Draco's strained, perspiring face as Harry guides the boggart back into the wooden chest. The tumultuous boom of thunder rumbles through the castle seconds after, mingling with the near-indecipherable sound of hundreds of voices screaming across the grounds.

October has brought with it not only the bad weather but also the first Quidditch match of the year - Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff - an event that has had the whole school buzzing with anticipation for the past week. With the majority of their peers cheerfully braving the storm outside, it seemed like the perfect opportunity for another of Draco's lessons, a chance to _really_ practice with the slimmest possibility of interruption. If it weren't for the occasional waves of noise rolling from the Quidditch pitch, Harry would think he and Draco were the last two souls left in the world.

"That was great - really great. You've made some excellent progress, Draco."

Harry had worried that Draco might not want to continue after their disastrous first lesson but he'd shown up for the next one his usual thorny self but without another word about it. In fact, they haven't spoken about Lucius again at all, the only change in their routine is that Draco has approached these lessons freshly invigorated. Airing his feelings towards his father has helped some, has pushed him into finding deeper pools of determination he didn't think himself capable of. He's made headway with confronting the boggart but he can never seem to push back hard enough. In the end, the boggart always gets the better of him.

"It's still not good enough though, is it?" Draco snaps, weak and shaking right down to his bones. He swallows down the poison in his mouth, lets it trickle heavy and bitter into his gut instead of unleashing it upon Harry. As compensation, he kicks at a chair and falls haphazardly into it, limbs hanging limp and zapped of energy. "He's still _there_."

"It's a step in the right direction," Harry says firmly, pulling out a couple of chocolate frogs from his backpack. He lightly tosses one to Draco, who scrambles to catch it. "Here, eat this. I know it's not the same effect that dementors cause but you're pushing yourself, you deserve it."

Draco stares down at the chocolate in his hands nonplussed. "Sweets gives you cavities."

"Christ, Draco. Do you never let yourself have any fun?"

"Why do you do that?" he murmurs, tracing around the cardboard edges of the chocolate wrapper with his little finger. "Why do you always call me Draco?"

Harry is in the process of biting the head off his own frog. "Uh - becuzzissyourname?" 

Chocolate and spit sprays everywhere from his mouth, earning a look of utter repugnance from the Slytherin across the room.

"No. You know what I mean. Why did it stop being Malfoy?"

"I - I don't really know. Does it bother you?"

He'd not stopped to think about how Draco prefers to be addressed. It's always been Malfoy because to call him anything other would have felt too...intimate, too personal. He hadn't even been aware of when he'd started to switch to using his first name, except that the way it trips off his tongue now is entirely too natural that he's not sure if he can ever go back to his surname. 

Draco sags deeper in his seat, letting his head tip backwards until it hits the back of the chair, his nose drawing a steady line to the ceiling. "It doesn't bother me - it _is_ my name, after all." he adds haughtily, as if momentarily forgetting that his purpose in life is to be mean to Harry Potter.

"Well - uh - that's good to know."

Harry is all too aware of his continued chewing in the otherwise silent room, he might as well be gnawing on rocks for all the sound he's making with his mouth. Draco is - or is pretending to be - unperturbed by the lack of conversation, the typically mean angles of his body turned slack from exhaustion. He's draped across his chair like a discarded cloak.  
It had taken surprisingly little time for Draco to give up everything he had to Harry; he can be flinty but he cooperates. He can be private but his best kept secrets whistle through gritted teeth like steam from a kettle. He can be rude but sometimes Harry can't help but wonder if Draco hates him as much as he _thinks_ he does.

And Harry? Harry finds himself no longer pitying Draco but rather admiring him. It takes nerve - an unquestionable practicality too - to not only throw yourself back into schoolwork amongst peers who hate you at worst and distrust you at best, but to allow yourself to be vulnerable to a person you've actively fought against for the past seven years. If their positions had been switched, if Harry had been the one faced with a choice of struggling on his own or opening up to Draco's scrutiny, he's not sure he'd have had the sense to humble himself as Draco had.

"Do you miss it?" Draco finally says to the chandelier hanging above him when the next crescendo of applause and cheering quietens down.

Harry, lost to his thoughts, jumps at the unexpected question, "Huh?" 

"Do-you-miss-it." Draco repeats, enunciating each word slowly for Harry's benefit. He raises the thin silver sliver of his eyebrow, waiting for awareness to colour Harry's voice.

"I dunno," he says awkwardly, glancing towards the window. Chunks of hail are hammering down on the pane of glass and he briefly sympathises with how miserable the conditions are for playing Quidditch. Even in spite of it, he tampers down the yearning ache in his heart for the thought of wind biting at his cheeks and cold rain creeping down his neck, the flash of a golden snitch inches from his outstretched fingers. "Ginny is a great captain, she knows her stuff. She motivates the team, her strategies are well thought out, everyone loves her. She has the makings of becoming an incredible professional player some day."

Draco's foot taps out an impatient rhythm on the stone floor. "We're not talking about Weasley though, are we?"

"No, I guess we're not." Harry concedes sheepishly, turning back to Draco who is still studiously watching the ceiling.

"Why didn't you try out for the team again this year?"

Harry ignores that for the present; he turns to locate his bag, begins hastily stuffing his belongings into it. Draco seems to sense the end of today's lesson is fast approaching and affects a firmer tone.

"Even a first-year would be able to see that you belong on a broom. I repeat, why didn't you try out?"

"What's with all the questions?" Harry bristles, violently yanking up the zip on his hoody. "I thought you weren't here to be friends."

Draco sighs a sigh so deep and drawn out that it's as if he's pulling out his own soul. "Let's just say that I'm sick of being the only one expected to spill his guts."

Harry can't stay mad at that. He _does_ owe Draco some transparency. It's not easy coming here and have Harry pull apart all the hidden histories from his brain and hold Draco's fear within his hands, completely at his mercy. He'd done it all with a grumble but he'd done it nonetheless.

"It's just - it's hard. I'm so tired of being gawped at." Harry confesses, expecting a biting remark from Draco for that. When none is forthcoming, he ploughs on. "But yeah - yeah, I miss it. I _miss_ flying. I miss the simplicity of it. Flying for me was always more than just the match, it was - it was about being free. I've spent so long always stuck in one cupboard - one room - _one house_ that just being able to look out and see all that sky...it was infinite to me."

Draco comes to full attention, his voice sharp enough to cut air. A glance over in his direction informs Harry that he's stopped finding the ceiling so interesting and has turned all his efforts onto Harry instead. 

"I beg your pardon - cupboard?"

"My aunt and uncle made me sleep in the cupboard under the stairs for eleven years." Harry explains nonchalantly; that sickening, twisted fact is uncomfortably easy for him to admit. "I got my own room eventually though - "

"Why on earth were they making you sleep in a cupboard?" Draco insists, brow furrowed.

"They didn't like me, they didn't like magic. Look, I'm over it now - "

"That's positively medieval." Draco says with disgust. It takes a moment for Harry's brain to translate the anger bubbling behind Draco's eyes as something directed at his aunt and uncle, and not at Harry himself. "Merlin, Potter, no wonder you have the look of a wilted flower about you."

Harry feels the tug of a smile at his lips, "Are you feeling sorry for me, Draco?"

"What - no! I was just wondering at how much of a martyr you are."

"You're one to talk."

"It's not - we're _not_ the same." Draco breathes, looking away. "It's not the same thing."

Harry snorts inelegantly, "Sure it isn't."

"This is simply a means to an end. You're accomplishing nothing by giving up Quidditch."

"Look, it's not just about Quidditch. I - I feel like I'm being stretched all the time," Harry begins, settling himself on the edge of a desk. He focuses on the faded fabric of his trainers, the tears in the rubber from one too many steps made in them, appreciating the ease in which the words seem to just ribbon out of him like fogged breath on a cold day. He's always been one to keep things bottled up until recently, he's surprised to hear admissions flow like this for Draco. "On one side, there's this - there's this _person_ who I don't even know. He's the guy everyone stops, it's who they're looking for. They want someone that doesn't exist, not in the way that they expect. He's the one they're searching for, some - some hero."

"Ever since I found out about this whole magical world, I've been met with some preconceived expectation. They see my mother's eyes in my father's face and already, their estimation of me is based off of my dead parents and who _they_ were, or because of this great tragedy that happened to me. Strangers decided who I was going to be without giving me a chance to figure it out for myself."

"And the other side?" Draco hears himself asking, quite out of his control.

"Then there's me." Harry shrugs. "Just me as _I_ see me. Just some kid who got stuck with his end of a bad deal - one that I never asked for. Someone who doesn't even know what he wants now that he can think for himself. I don't know who I am without the Dursley's - without Voldemort. How messed up is that?"

Draco remains silent.

"So maybe that's why it stopped being Malfoy." Harry continues, looking up from his battered trainers to meet Draco's eyes. "Maybe it's because you're just like me and I'm finally starting to see that." 

Draco bends his head, scratching at some bothersome itch or strain there at the nape of his neck, disrupting the fringes of his starlit hair. "Sometimes, it doesn't occur to me that I'm being rude until too late." Draco begins slowly. "I have to remind myself to work a little harder to be...civil towards you."

"...Is that an apology, Draco?"

Draco waves his hand about as if to bat the words back at Harry, " _Where_ in that did you hear an apology?"

"It was implied but don't worry, I forgive you." 

They're running out of time, Harry knows that. The Quidditch match could end at any second and they both have to return to their common rooms before too long. Harry reaches out to prolong the moment, not giving himself time to ponder over why he even wants to keep Draco here. They've never spoken like this before, not so calmly, not without one of them testing the limits of the other's patience.

"What about you? Do you miss it? Flying, I mean?" 

He's fully aware that he's not the only one avoiding the Quidditch pitch. He knows better than to ask Draco why _he_ hadn't tried for the Slytherin team.

Draco blinks. "Well, I was never a team player." he offers unexpectedly, standing in one smooth motion. He flings his bag over his shoulder, his hurried farewell normally without a spoken word of goodbye. This time, Draco pauses and looks at Harry without so much as a sneer, the fingertips of one hand pressed lightly to the surface of the desk. His expression is almost wistful. "I suppose I do miss the flying itself."

"We're a right pair, aren't we?" Harry asks quietly, hypnotising him with that discerning stare. He doesn't let up and Draco can't tear away no matter how much he wants to; Draco's whole world becomes emerald. 

The Slytherin raps his knuckles against the desk to break the spell, pulling free of Harry's gaze with an uneasy cough. He gestures in the general direction of the grandfather clock that McGonagall keeps in the corner of the room without once glancing over to it.

"Ahem - well - I need to go. I'll...see you around, Potter."

Harry waits a beat too long, until there's no one left to hear his stunned laugh. Draco has become a ghost once more.

"See you around."

***

Ron is still in his mud splattered Quidditch robes, dripping all over the carpet in the common room, hanging over the back of Harry's armchair to spy the pages of The Quibbler in his hands. He has a wad of clumpy tissue pressed to his nose, splodges of scarlet blooming like grotesque flowers. 

"What happened to you?!"

"Bludger to the face." Ron explains, wincing as he readjusts his hold on the tissue. "Must've happened around the last five minutes. Dunno what that bloody beater was thinking, everyone else was at the other end of the pitch!"

"Good game then?" Harry asks, shaking the magazine to dispel the careless, pink tinged water drops that have fallen from Ron's inquisitive face.

"Rubbish, mate. We were down about seventy points the whole match, we were getting murdered out there." Ron grumbles, kicking off his boots to reveal even dirtier socks. "We're lucky your replacement caught the snitch before Hufflepuff could do anymore damage."

"Oh - right." Harry says, trying not to sound too glum. "Who's that again?"

"Violet Dickinson, third year. She's alright but she's not as good as you, although maybe after a few games and a bit more training she'll get there. Ginny was fuming after the whistle was blown, she's still peeved about Madam Hooch not calling a foul when - "

"Ron, you can give Harry a blow-by-blow after you've cleaned yourself up." Hermione calls, climbing in through the portrait hole with a glowering, soaked Ginny in tow. "You're making a mess."

"You're looking dry." Harry observes, accepting the warm hug from Hermione and catching the familiar comforting scent of her: lavender and vanilla. 

"Umbrella Charm." she explains with a shy, pleased smile. "It held up quite well, I only felt a few drops."

Ron harrumphs as he shucks off his sodden robes and dumps them in a dirty pile in front of the fire, sharing a look of dark jealousy with his sister.

"If anyone needs me, I'm going to be collecting my things and then I'll be in the shower for the next three hours." Ginny says miserably, snaking strands of red hair plastered to her pale cheeks. "Honestly, it's not the same without you, Harry." she adds as she passes him by on the way to the girl's dormitory, pressing a wet hand to his for the briefest second.

"How was your time alone with Malfoy, anyway?" Ron pipes up, squelching his way to the settee. "Have yourselves a nice little chat?"

Hermione tuts, waving her wand to siphon the worst of the mud from Ron's robes. "Ron, don't tip your head back like that, hold it forward - and they're not _chatting_. They're making important leaps in Draco's casting abilities, aren't you, Harry?"

"Er - yeah." Harry mumbles sheepishly, knowing full well that they had in fact been chatting quite a bit. "We're getting there..."

Ron detects the sound of Harry's hesitancy and latches onto it, "What's that mean?"

"Well - "

"Has he been giving you trouble?"

"What? No - no. He's just struggling to overcome his fear, he can never get past the image of his dad."

"Go on then, what's been going on?"

"Ron! Fears are deeply personal. Maybe Draco doesn't want the information broadcast. It's supposed to be between him and Harry."

"I'm just trying to engage! You're always banging on about me needing to engage with people, take them into consideration or whatever it was you said."

"Obviously I didn't mean like this! I meant asking someone if they're okay when you see them upset or - "

"I'm taking an interest in Harry's pursuits, aren't I?" Ron says, affronted. He sits up straighter, wagging a finger in Hermione's direction. "Remember when you told me we needed to encourage him more when he did stuff without us?"

" _Ron._ " Hermione scolds, mortified. She looks between Harry and Ron in a panic, her voice high. "I didn't say it like that, Harry!"

"It's alright, Hermione. I get it." Harry says calmly, wading into the conversation to lull the tension beginning to brew. "This thing with Draco, I know that he has it in him. I just wish I could help him with this bit."

"You can't do it all, Harry. You can't carry everyone's burden all the time."

"I know that, Ron but it's difficult seeing him go through that over and over again. I just have to stand there and it's just - I feel so useless."

"Harry." Hermione says sadly, recovered marginally from her embarrassment. She crouches at Harry's feet, gently shifting the Quibbler to pat his knee. "If it were possible to take on someone else's fear, we'd have found a way by now. You're doing all you can. Draco will get there, you're a good teacher."

"Am I the only one who thinks it's weird that if he's been this scared of his dad, why was he always threatening to grass everyone up to him?" Ron pushes back his wet hair with both hands, until it's slicked smooth and flat against his head - until it resembles the way Draco wears his hair. Harry gets a sinking feeling in his gut, anticipating Ron's actions and he can feel Hermione's hand balling into a tight fist at his knee, knowing that she's reaching the same conclusions. 

"Ron - " Hermione says sharply, the warning in her voice going unheard.

"The smarmy arse would never shut up about it." Ron adopts an uncanny plummy accent, reclining back ever so slightly, deploying the cocked eyebrow which Draco often favours. "Wait until my father hears about this - "

"Don't." Harry snaps, temper flaring. "Don't do that. You don't know what he's been through."

For a second, the air between them is thick, dangerous with static. Ron's lips, smeared ruby red with drying blood, part as if he's about to hit back, the tangy taste of cruel words already on his tongue - but then, it's as if he becomes unplugged. The anger seems to zap out of him quicker than it came on. He balls up what's left of his bloody tissue and they all watch it zip across the length of the room until it wings its way into the wide mouth of the bin with a revolting splat. 

Ron slumps forward, his head spilling into his large hands, body trembling in the damp clothes. "Sorry - I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I dunno what I was - it's just hard to keep upbeat, you know? After - after losing Fred and seeing Malfoy just - Fred had his life taken away from him. He doesn't get to carry on like before." 

"Oh, Ron." Hermione says with a sob, reaching out to grasp his wrist. 

They all sit like that, a human paper chain of grief and pain and regret, heedless of the other Gryffindors milling about around them. No one bothers them, no one ever does. Here in Gryffindor Tower, they never even have to ask. They're the golden trio, what they went through is widely speculated but never spoken, and everyone in the common room often wonders in the privacy of their own heads or in muted questions to their friends but never aloud to the three of them. Something like that can never be put into words.

"Don't you see?" Harry asks in desperate murmurs, swiping away the prickling in his eyes for his friend's anguish but this needs to be said. "It was all an act - it's _all_ an act. Draco always used his father a threat because, to him, that was the worst thing he could think to inflict on someone. He deserves our kindness, not ridicule."

Harry is nauseated thinking about it. To be so scared of your own father as to use him as a weapon against others? No wonder Draco can be flinty, no wonder he can so often be guarded. Harry had never held any illusions about the Dursley's, he'd always known that they were repulsed by him but he can't begin to imagine the push and pull of a father who loved you at one moment and despised you the next, the sort of effect that that can have on your frame of mind.

"I'm sorry, Harry." Ron says again. 

"It's okay. Just - just don't take the piss out of him, alright? We've all had a rough go of it this past year. I get it - I get that losing Fred - it's not fair, it's never been fair. Everyone we've lost. Don't you think we should give people a second chance if they're trying to change?"

"Look, I don't know what to think anymore." Ron says, sniffing thickly. He pulls Hermione's hand towards his chest, running a circle around her palm with his thumb. "After the war, everything got messed up. People were coming out with their stories, saying they were coerced or Imperiused into doing all that stuff for You-Know-Who - just like last time. What if they're just making their excuses until the next chance at world domination."

Harry looks at his friend; he looks at his watery, red-rimmed eyes, at his chewed up lips and realises he had no clue. He had no idea how deeply Ron's terror ran, how much of this went far beyond simply Draco Malfoy.

"There's always going to be bad people, that's true." Harry agrees, leaning over the side of his armchair to grab Ron's free hand. "Voldemort is dead and there's no way we can know whether someone else down the line will take up his mantel. But that doesn't mean we stop trying. It doesn't mean that we can become cynical or that we should, I dunno, shut ourselves off from other people because we're scared. If we did that, we'd be just like them." 

"I wish I had your heart, Harry."

"No, Harry's right." Hermione breathes heavily, eyes shining. She seems to crackle with some unseen force, the light that shines when she talks about S.P.E.W but to full wattage. "We can't stop fighting for what we believe in. We _can't_ give in because the toll of our sacrifices have become too heavy. Those sacrifices are the reason we need to keep going because otherwise, everything we've done to get to this point would be lost. We need to trust in Draco. We have to keep trusting in people."

"What if they betray us though? What then?" Ron demands.

Harry looks around the common room, at faces both familiar and new to him; two fourth year students arguing with a portrait about the benefits of mandrake root, Nearly Headless Nick describing the Headless Hunt with fervour to a cluster of awestruck first years, a muggle-born explaining in detail how a lightbulb works to her guffawing friends from wizarding backgrounds, Ginny shuffling past with a wobbling shampoo bottle balanced on top of a stack of towels and pyjamas. None of it would have been possible if they'd chosen to stay passive, if they'd lay down and waited for Voldemort to crush everything they held dear.

McGonagall had been right to stress the importance that they remain united. The smallest fracture may grow into a crevice if left unattended. Harry can never turn his back on Draco, he knows better than anyone the way in which isolation eats away at your brain.

"What we've always done," Harry says with conviction. "We push back."


	6. Chapter 6

Draco is sat at the end of the Slytherin table, just far enough away to be outside the perimeter of awareness. The other students around him chatter on happily, leaving him to go unnoticed, a solitary phantom blowing at the steam in his mug, one book propped against the edge of his bowl.

Harry recognises their routine enough to despise it. They secretly work on the boggart together and then Harry returns to Ron and Hermione while Draco slinks away to his quiet dormitory and the company of himself, _then_ they ignore each other if they see one another around school. Well...Draco makes a point of ignoring Harry's friendly wave or smile, his eyes always sliding over and past him so often that Harry figures he might as well be wearing the invisibility cloak for all the acknowledgement Draco affords him.

He's grown immensely tired of the charade. To Harry, it's as if it sets them back three months. It treats the boggart lessons as just that, just a temporary arrangement even though for a while now, Harry has started to hope for something more, something like friendship. He hasn't an ounce of resentment left towards Draco and this union of convenience has become redundant to him. Of course he still wants to _help_ Draco but why should they not become friends in the process? 

Hermione pulls him back into the present with a snap of her fingers, her hand flapping insistently before his eyes.

"Are you listening, Harry?"

"What? Yeah - of course. You were talking about - uh - "

"You've been daydreaming an awful lot lately." Hermione frowns at him, her brow furrowed thoughtfully. "If you have anything on your mind, I'm sure that if you talked about it then - "

"I'm fine, Hermione - _really_." Harry adds when he sees she's about to argue the point. "You know I'd tell you otherwise. So what were you saying before now?"

Hermione frowns some more but doesn't say another word about it because she's intuitive enough to know when to press and when to leave well alone. 

"I was thinking we could hold a revision group for O.W.L and N.E.W.T students in the common room during our free periods - or after dinner in the evening? We could make a party of it, maybe provide some snacks and pumpkin juice so that it'll be fun! I know that I wished we'd had some scheduled extracurricular studying during our fifth year - "

"What did you think Dumbledore's Army was, Hermione? Besides, not everyone _wants_ to study during the evening. People just want to relax." Ron counters, brandishing a spoon at her and splattering excess milk onto Harry's face. "Not everyone is as dedicated as you."

"I don't think everyone puts the words _party_ and _revision_ together either." Harry chips in half-heartedly, his attention returning to Draco. The pull of the other boy is like the force of a magnet; no matter how hard Harry tries, Draco is always there under his gaze.

Ron chuckles softly, "In Hermione's world, they're synonymous."

"I can't decide whether that's intended as a compliment or not." Hermione says dubiously.

"Hermione! You know you're the light of my life - "

"Oh, shut up."

"And that I'd be lost without you - "

"Ron - "

"And that I think everything you do is wonderful. Look, if you think it's a good idea, I say go for it. This lot could benefit from an extra bit of studying."

"Alright, you've proven your point!" Hermione says, hiding her smile behind a hand. "I hope you know you're included in that _extra bit of studying_."

"Naturally."

"What about you, Harry? Do you think it's a good idea?" Hermione inquires eagerly, turning to catch Harry slipping out of his seat. "Harry - Harry, where are you going?!"

"Oh, yeah. Brilliant." Harry tells her distractedly. "I'll be back in a minute, I just need to..."

Ron catches on quickly and Harry hears a faint, _"Oh, bloody hell, I know where he's going."_ muttered by him in low despairing tones. 

On his way to the Slytherin table - Draco's head still bent towards his book, blissfully unaware of Harry's approach - Harry wonders at this inexplicable connection he has with Draco. The petty rivalry which was born that day from a rejected handshake then strengthened on the back of pranks and jealousy grew with them, until this thing between them had twisted into something unhealthy, something of an obsession on both sides. 

Sixth year had put an end to it, the sight of Draco writhing amidst the pink-tinged water of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom had made sure of that. Screams of agony subsiding into gurgling sobs. Garbled words lost as Draco slipped from consciousness. Harry's vision singling down to those scarlet slashes in a crisp white shirt. Harry had done that to him. It had zapped him out of the paranoia and madness so that he could finally see Draco for what he was: a desperate boy complicated by family beliefs and his own learned prejudices.

The confirmation of that came with Draco, deathly pale, crouching over Harry in Malfoy Manor and at the very brink from nerves, uncertain and hesitant and skittish, and yet still unable to betray Harry to his family despite gunmetal eyes ringed with stark violet and the maniacal urging of Bellatrix Lestrange. 

"Draco." Harry says in greeting, sliding onto the bench opposite the startled Slytherin.

Draco seems to have recovered marginally; gone is the expression of tender bewilderment, now he traces a finger around the rim of the mug, affecting a nonchalance too practised to convince Harry. He's been caught off guard, Harry knows it.

"What have I done to deserve the honour of breakfasting with our Chosen One today?"

Harry pulls a face. Draco's quiet jibes sting no matter how prepared he is for them. "Don't call me that."

"Would you prefer the Boy Who Lived, then?" Draco suggests, snapping his book shut. "Our noble saviour?"

"Shove off, Draco. I just thought you should have company, is all."

The sound of gossip - growing steadily louder like rainfall - dawns on Harry. He notices Draco isn't ignorant to it either, his knuckles white and body stiff as if he's exerting all his efforts to keep from crumpling in on himself. Whispers follow Harry like his shadow; by coming over here, he has burnt all of Draco's carefully cultivated anonymity to the ground.

"You know what? I'll go, I shouldn't have assumed that - "

"No, wait." Draco says quickly, looking awfully surprised at his own gall. He swallows hard, flushing a brilliant shade of pink. This, too, is something Harry has noticed of late; Draco is always quick to blush, often at odds with his barbed words. "You...can stay."

Harry sinks back down onto the bench. "I can?"

"If you really want to." Draco tells him slowly, cautiously. "I - " Draco clears his throat, tries again. "I didn't mean to annoy you."

"Yes, you did. You know how I feel about that stuff, you were going for the jugular. It's your defense mechanism."

Draco actually manages a small smile, barely a quirk of his mouth but it causes Harry's heart to hammer out in a disjointed rhythm all the same. He has no memory of Draco ever smiling - not like _this_ anyway. Unfettered of cruelty or sarcasm or to mock. This smile is something else entirely, something new to Harry.

"I'd ask you not to spread that around, Potter. People will start making the wrong assumptions about me and then where will I be, I wonder?"

"Not sitting here on your own, for starters." 

"Some of us enjoy the solitude."

"I dunno if you strike me as the sort, to be fair." Harry says blithely.

"Really," Draco leans forward, folded arms pressing into the table. "And what _sort_ do I strike you as?"

Harry grins, all teeth. He's genuinely enjoying the conversation. "Bossy. You like telling people what to do. Can't do that if you're on your own all the time."

"Are you volunteering to be bossed about then?" 

Draco. Draco is _teasing_. He says it all with his monotonous drawl but it's undeniable. Harry takes what he can get and laughs heartily, the sound flowing out of him easy and natural. It's loud enough to draw several more heads in their direction.

"You lack any subtlety, Potter." Draco surmises with obvious discomfort, shifting in his seat. His poker face is breathtakingly terrible, so much so that Harry can't believe he'd managed to pull the wool over so many people's eyes for the past few years. Harry can read him as clearly as a book. "Everybody is staring."

"It's an unfortunate side effect of being me, I guess. Is it - is it too much for you?"

"A little." Draco confesses, his hands fiddling with the handle of his mug like he doesn't know what else to do with them.

Harry gets a glimpse into what it must be like for anyone who enters his close circle and the risk they take of catching the rays from his burdensome spotlight. Ron and Hermione had taken it in their stride for the most part, Hermione particularly unflappable despite the ceaseless attention that often came Harry's way. It hasn't always been easy for them - all the articles and double-takes and photographs taken of them when they're just trying to do their shopping - but they accept that it's just the way it is because the world can never get enough of Harry Potter, no matter how trivial. Seeing Draco's personal reaction though, from someone who has been unwillingly dragged back into the public eye after working so hard to get out of it, Harry feels a wash of guilt.

"Why don't you come and sit with us sometime? Ron and Hermione won't mind - "

"You must be joking?" Draco's gaze shifts minutely towards the Gryffindor table, face closing off as he gestures to something behind Harry. "Speaking of. I think your friends are in need of you, Potter." he says quietly, abandoning his seat the moment Harry swivels around. Hermione is clinging onto Ron's arm, holding him back, their mouths moving furiously like they're in the midst of a mumbled argument. "I'll see you around."

"Draco - wait - "

Harry jumps up too but his way is immediately blocked by Ron, finally free of Hermione's grip. She twists on the bench to look between them but Harry isn't getting any overtly concerning vibes from either of them. He doesn't let it slow him.

"Harry, we need to talk - " 

"We can - after. I won't be long." Harry tells them, craning his neck to look past Ron's shoulders. 

"We have Transfiguration in ten minutes!"

Harry pushes past Ron, accepting his bag already held out for him by a resigned Hermione. "So I'll be quick then." he calls behind him, taking off into a sprint.

It seems as if he's always going to be chasing after Draco in one way or another, Harry reckons as he dashes down the steps and outside into the grey day. Will he always be looking out for the glint of blonde hair in the darkness, listening out for fading footsteps that seem to persistently evade him? Pinning down Draco is like trying to hold onto starlight but Harry is quite unable to keep himself from attempting it.

"OI, DRACO!"

Draco is halfway across the stone courtyard, tripping over his own feet the moment he hears Harry's call.

"For the love of Merlin, why are you always following me?!" Draco echoes Harry's thoughts aloud but he doesn't sound mad, only fed up.

"Because you keep running away!"

Draco flounders, blushing brilliantly, and draws his cloak tightly around his body to stave off the cold. "With reason. Don't you understand that I'm trying to spare you. You shouldn't be seen with me, I'm - I'm no good."

This admission is unusual. Had he simply said to Harry that he can't stand the sight of him, that he puts up with him just so that he can beat his boggart, then Harry might have let it go. This, however - this gives Harry a foothold, a spark of something for him to breathe promise into.

"Oh, come off it, Draco."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"You're here, aren't you? Here at Hogwarts in spite of everything."

"Your point being?"

Beside them, in the middle of the courtyard where a fountain once sat before it was blown to smithereens, stands a towering statue; a phoenix, wings spread wide and its head turned skyward, soars from ashes and realistic, crackling flames that turn the light rain into mist. Even now, even as a frequent visitor to the monument, Harry still marvels at Professor Flitwick's beautiful spellwork. Below, a sleek marble block bears the names of not just those lost to the battle of Hogwarts but every single person who died under Voldemort's reign. 

Harry reaches out to trace a shaky finger against the lines of a name he's sought out at least a hundred times, a name he's stared at hard as if to will the person into existence before him: Sirius Black. "My point is I don't want to see another person I - I know vilified. There's more to you than that mark on your arm." 

Draco's eyes follow the shapes of the letters at Harry's fingertip. "I'm hardly the same as Black."

"You were just as helpless as Sirius was."

"Potter, I need you to understand that I accept my share of responsibility. I'm certainly no angel."

"I know that! Look, Sirius wasn't a saint, he'd be the first to admit that but he had to spend years of his life living as if he were Voldemort's number one man and not a single person who knew him ever doubted it. He lived as if he _had_ done that stuff, he died before he could clear his name. I don't want you to go through the same thing."

"I can't just pretend that none of it happened," Draco snaps. "Black was actually innocent of the crimes he'd been accused of. I did all of those things. I was _aware_ I was doing them and I knew it was wrong but I did it anyway. It - it wouldn't be fair to anyone for me to turn a blind eye to that. It would make me just as guilty as I was then."

"But you didn't - "

"If you say I didn't want to do it one more time, Potter," Draco threatens. He grabs at Harry's arm, indicating to the names cast into the marble, hopelessly frenzied. "These people who died - I played a part in that. I may not have raised my own wand to them but I was one of the catalysts that led to their deaths."

"If you're talking about Snape killing Dumbledore, then it was all planned. Dumbledore was always meant to die - "

"Death Eaters still infiltrated Hogwarts because of what I'd done! You can't clear me of all charges, it's not for any one person to decide. I betrayed you all and if you want to forgive me then _fine_ , just don't expect the same from everybody else. I don't - I won't. So please, do try to _delve deep_ so that you can accomplish something you haven't yet before: let it drop, Potter."

"Fine! Alright. I'll drop it!" 

"Good."

"But this won't change anything!"

"Impossible," Draco shakes his head, staring at Harry incredulously. "You're the most impossible person I've had the misfortune to meet. How do Weasley and Granger stand it?"

"Look, I meant what I said, you know. I can leave you alone outside of the boggart lessons. I know how all of this - " Harry gestures at himself, to the wider expanse of the school beyond them and the other students hidden within. " - I know how hard it can be to take. I know that I turn everything to ash." 

"Do you really believe that?"

"I don't know - yeah - yeah, I guess I do."

Draco gapes at him, for a moment looking as if he's going to say something but then all he does is tut, pressing the thin lines of his mouth shut. Harry is agog, watching him turn on his heel and hurry back up to the castle just as the drizzle turns into something more substantial, seeping through Harry's shirt. As Draco goes, Harry hears him mutter to himself, just one word fuelled by the anger that Draco is constantly - fruitlessly - trying to tamp down when it comes to Harry Potter.

" _Impossible!_ "

***

With the Christmas holidays fast approaching, the castle over-goes its magnificent festive transformation seemingly overnight. Hagrid outdoes himself with the trees; lush and green, enormous firs so heavily perfumed that the taste and smell of them linger on tongues and in nostrils long after leaving the Great Hall, groaning under streamers of silver and gold, baubles and bells that softly tinkle carols and play requested favourites.

Every corridor bears garlands nestling twinkling fairies and shiny holly berries, wreaths hang from every classroom door, piles of Christmas crackers two feet tall sit like small mountains on the tables. The suits of armour had even proffered candy canes to students until Peeves tampered with them and caused them to launch the sweets at anyone passing by, sharp striped missiles cheerfully ricocheting off walls, bags and unlucky heads. It became so bad that students and teachers alike began avoiding those particular corridors altogether, too wrapped up in the Christmas spirit to do anything about it.

Harry himself catches onto the infectious mood before too long, looking forward to a Christmas finally free of stress or trouble or the possibility of oncoming death. That is, until his friends ambush him in the common room one morning.

"Okay, it's time to talk." Ron orders, shepherding Harry over to a chair and pushing him forcibly into it.

"Talk?"

"Told you he'd forget." Ron mumbles to Hermione. "We wanted to talk the other day? When you went running off after Malfoy again, remember?" Ron asks, lightly rapping his knuckles against Harry's head.

"Oh - uh, right," Harry says, looking between the two of them. "Talk about what?"

If there's one thing that Ron is brilliant at - besides chess and loyalty, of course - it's his ability to absolutely _never_ sugarcoat anything. Harry suspects it's something he's inherited from Molly and he likes that best of all about Ron, that there's no pretence and you know what you're going to get the moment he opens his mouth. 

"Harry, you were _flirting_ with Malfoy."

Harry may appreciate Ron's directness but it startles him regardless, "What? No, I wasn't!"

Ron rolls his eyes as if he's put-upon by having to explain this to his best friend. "Yes, you were! You were doing that flirting thing you do."

"What flirting thing?!"

"You always ruffle the back of your hair." Ron informs him sagely, his smirk immensely smug. "It's like a nervous reaction."

"I was _not_ doing that - "

"Actually, you were." Ginny cuts in brightly, emerging from the girl's dormitory stairway, playfully shoving Ron's elbow off the armrest so she can perch there. "You did it all the time when you were flirting with me. I used to think that maybe you had bad dandruff or something."

Harry's face catches on fire. "Oh god. I was flirting with Draco."

"There, there." Hermione says bracingly, coming to his side to pat at his arm. "If it's any consolation, we don't think Draco has noticed either. In that respect, you're perfect for each other."

Harry can't even _begin_ to process that. "Why do none of you sound surprised?!"

It's Hermione's turn to blush. "I sort of guessed - "

"You _guessed_?"

"Hermione told me." Ron says plainly.

Ginny delicately lifts a shoulder, utterly unashamed. "The hair thing tipped me off pretty early."

"We've been chatting about it for the past month, I'd say." Ron explains, looking around to his sister and Hermione for confirmation. "You would go and get a crush on bloody Malfoy, wouldn't you?"

"Oh _god._ " Harry repeats, pulling fingers through his knotty hair. He glances at Ginny. She's as beautiful as ever: freckles on snow-white skin and waves of deep red hair falling about her face, that pure _nerve_ as vibrant in her as it has always been. The tightness around her eyes softens when Harry appeals to her, his voice quieter than a whisper. "Are you mad at me?"

Even Ron has the sense to make himself scarce, slipping away with Hermione to give them privacy.

"No, Harry." she says gently. "I'm not mad. We stopped working long before you felt anything for Malfoy."

Harry nods, grateful to her for that. A part of him nearly tells her how much he misses her; he misses her casual teasing, the snort in her goofy laugh, the competitive streak that arises during games of Quidditch or Exploding Snap or when someone questions her hexing abilities. Ginny is wired differently to Ron, their need to prove themselves manifesting in wholly opposite ways: where Ron pulls back deeper into himself, bridling and stewing until everything spews out of him at once, Ginny grabs at everything she does with both hands and stares it down until it moves out of her way. Harry _misses_ her being around but he knows she needs the distance between them for now.

"I don't know what to do anymore," Harry admits. He heaves a sigh, lacing fingers behind his head so he can tip back and stare miserably at the ceiling. "Everything is just a mess."

"You'll think of something." Ginny says confidently, a smile in her voice. So sure of him that he has to blink away at the prickling in his eyes. "You always do."

After that, Harry has no time to even worry about what he's going to do about the Draco situation. Christmas is mere days away so they've put a hold on their boggart lessons to focus on all the work that the teachers are heaping on them. Harry feels so swamped with essays and revision that frankly, trying to make sense of his emotions for his former enemy-turned-reluctant student-turned-sort of acquaintance would be too much to handle. 

During his free period at the end of one tediously long Wednesday, Harry risks Hermione's disapproval and decides to head down to surprise Hagrid instead of catching up on homework, only appeasing her by promising over lunch to dedicate the forthcoming weekend to studying. 

He's barely made it off the rickety bridge leading out to the school grounds, caught between half dreading Hagrid's rock cakes and half daydreaming about the golden platters of gingerbread in the Great Hall, when an unexpected voice calls out to him, jolting him out of his thoughts.

"Heads up, Potter."

Harry turns in time to catch the handle of a broomstick hurtling his way, narrowly avoiding broken glasses. Draco is standing there, dressed down in a black turtleneck jumper and well-worn tailored trousers, the silver and green scarf cast lazily around his neck like an afterthought, not bothering with a coat and settling for his cloak despite the freezing day. He is, however, lightly holding his Nimbus 2001 in one hand.

"What's this for?"

"To sweep the floor with." Draco says flatly, smoothing a stray strand of hair back into its rightful place. "Flex your imagination a little, Potter. I'm challenging you to a game of one on one Quidditch, obviously. That's no Firebolt but it's the best I could dredge up."

Harry rearranges his hold on the worse-for-wear Cleansweep. "How did you know where I was?"

"I heard you blathering about visiting Hagrid to Granger during lunch. You should practice your indoor voice if you'd rather no one overhear your plans, Potter. Making yourself scarce hardly lends itself to your lifestyle though." Draco bites back, pushing past Harry and storming off in the direction of the Quidditch pitch, his cloak billowing out behind him in the winter wind. 

"Quidditch? But - but why?!"

"Do I need a reason?" Draco shouts over his shoulder, assuming Harry will comply and follow.

Harry looks after Draco's retreating figure, then down to the broom still held in his tight grasp. He has to jog to catch up with Draco's long-legged stride, slipping on the frosted grass as they descend a slope.

"Well, hold on! We can't just head down to the pitch whenever we like!"

"I have it on good authority that the pitch is available this afternoon." Draco says casually, breath misting in the chilly air, barely turning his head to glance at Harry. "Unless you're too scared, Potter?"

Harry can't help but smile, "You wish."

They clamber as carefully as they can down to the Quidditch pitch, casting a quick _Alohamora_ on the gate to let themselves in.

 _Oh Merlin_ , Harry thinks as they emerge out onto the circular pitch. He spins to take it all in: the flags atop of the turrets flapping in the breeze, patchy grass worn away to dirt from feet kicking off of the ground, the roar of the wind whistling through the vacant seats, almost as if hundreds of voices are calling out in unison to urge him on. _Oh Merlin, how he's missed this._

Harry digs a heel into the frozen ground, silently approving. He shucks off his coat and scarf, leaving them in a jumble by a goal post, turning to see Draco already in the air and performing an impressive loop de loop. It's effortless and so far removed from Draco's usual flying style that it stuns Harry. How much had he been holding back when he was on the Slytherin team?

He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts up to Draco, his voice echoing around the deserted pitch. "So what are we playing with?" 

"Here - "

Draco whizzes by overhead, dropping an apple so vibrantly green into Harry's waiting hands that it makes his eyes water.

"What? Are we seriously playing with an apple?"

"Got anything better?"

Harry doesn't. He tosses the apple about between his hands for a minute, getting a feel for its weight and size, ignoring Draco tutting with impatience from above.

"It'll be dark before we play at this rate, Potter! What else would you like to know about the apple? The orchard from which it was plucked? Its state of ripeness? Get a move on!"

"You're hilarious," Harry says drily, winding back his arm to catapult the apple up and away, pleased when Draco hurtles after it on his broom, exactly what he was hoping for.

Harry has kicked off the ground and - even on the ancient Cleansweep - already caught up to Draco by the time he's seized the tumbling apple.

"It's alright if you missed that, Potter, because you're going to be seeing a lot more of - "

Harry barely waits for Draco to turn in the midst of his gloating. He draws in his shoulders, butting into Draco with everything he has, a move that would have Oliver Wood weeping with unbridled pride and Madame Hooch disqualifying him from a match in an instant.

Draco spirals on his broom like a sycamore seed falling from a tree branch, one hand reaching to shove a fistful of hair from his beet red face when he's regained control. Harry braces himself for a verbal dressing down but instead he finds Draco grinning.

"You did that on purpose!" his gasp is thinly veiled amazement, clouds of hot smoking breath chug from his mouth like a steam train. "I'd no idea you Gryffindors had it in you."

Harry smirks into his shoulder while he flies down to scoop up the apple dropped in the surprise, "It's just a little friendly competition."

Draco's grin turns a little meaner, eyes narrowing. "Oh, I'll show you _friendly_."

They play dirty and it's the most fun Harry has had in a long while. They play until the pearly clouds turn slate. Harry has no idea how long they've been outside for, he measures their time in moments; Draco's immaculate nails scraping against the back of his hand in pursuit of the apple, a desperate fumble of tearing clothes and kicked shins and bruised limbs, the whizz of the fruit streaking past his ear and into the goal, his numb fingers mistakenly yanking Draco's streaming scarf from his throat but it hardly even slows him down.

Draco's nose is pink at its pointed tip, his cheeks flushed from the flying, lending a pleasant warmth to the otherwise frozen face. Harry silently admits to himself that Draco's wind-tousled hair suits him; it turns the marble statue of a boy pretending to be a man into more of the seventeen year old that he is. Someone reachable. Some other layer that makes Harry's heart flutter and stomach clench all the more.

When they dismount, Harry can practically _feel_ Draco's buoyancy leech away.

"Are you okay?"

Draco looks ready to vomit, white teeth anxiously chewing his bottom lip raw. Harry forces himself to look away from that but Draco won't even meet his gaze.

"...Potter, I need to ask you something."

Harry hoists the broom over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows, not unkindly.

"I find myself a little out of my depth."

"Oh?"

"I need to return to Malfoy Manor for Christmas." he explains, eyes downcast. "There are errands for me to run, staff to meet. That sort of thing. My mother is - uh - otherwise engaged so it falls to me to get everything back on track but I - I'd rather not go alone..."

"Oh." Harry says after a pregnant pause.

"Before you answer, let me just say this; I did all of this because you seem hellbent on wheedling your way into my life and - and I've not the energy to stop you anymore. I have no one else to ask, otherwise I would just - I know the Manor holds memories for you that you'd rather forget. It's bad enough that I have to - well, never mind that. What I'm trying to say is, don't say you'll come out of your insufferable do-gooder complex. I think you deserve more than that and - and maybe so do I."

"Well, how about as friends then?"

"Friends," Draco savours the word like an experimental bite of an unfamiliar delicacy, speaking it softly, handling it as gently as he would an ancient book in the library. Harry's heart gives a painful squeeze at Draco's confusion. "You want to be _friends_?"

"Merlin's Beard, of course I do! Did you think I was hounding you just to be irritating?!"

"It sounds like something you'd do, you seem to enjoy vexing me. Being boyhood adversaries lost its charm, has it?"

Harry shakes his head, willing Draco to shake off the facade. "Come on, Draco. You don't need to do that."

A heavy moment passes. Neither of them speak - Harry doesn't dare to.

Draco holds out one steady hand.

Seven years ago, Harry had rebuffed the very same hand held out for his friendship. It had been done without a second thought or regret, Harry had taken Draco at face value that day and turned away from him ever since. Until sixth year. Until the battle. Until now.

Harry slides his fingers against the surprisingly warm palm of Draco's hand and clasps at it, every beat of his heart felt in his throat. Draco's wide eyes are as grey as the sky hanging above them, the first flurry of snowfall drifting down onto his pale eyelashes and catching there, and Harry is struck by the sudden awareness that they've crossed some invisible line. It's like cogs slowly but assuredly clunking into place, snug and secure, fitting into where they're meant to be.

Draco must feel it too because he carefully extricates his hand from Harry's grasp, that all too familiar stain of pink spreading across his cheeks before he has chance to turn away.

 _Uh oh,_ Harry thinks to himself, nauseous and exhilarated all at once. _Uh oh, I'm done for._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, I'm so sorry it's taken me this long to post a new chapter. I really _was_ hoping to have this up before Christmas but the second wind I was waiting for never came even though I managed to squeeze out not one but TWO unrelated oneshots in between updates.
> 
> I physically can't bring myself to read through this for the hundredth time so I hope it's okay! Lots of love to you all as always!
> 
> UPDATE (currently 1st March): I am writing the next chapter! I don't know how else I can inform any of you who may read this fic but I _am_ working on it. I just think it might be a longer-than-ordinary chapter because I want it to be worth your time reading!


	7. Chapter 7

The turrets of Hogwarts are capped in a delightful frosting of glistening snow, the morning sun reflecting off of the white landscape and dazzling Harry's eyes in its wake.

"Bloody hell, let's hurry up and get back to the castle." Ron is complaining, squinting in the bright light while trying to help Hermione up the snowy bank. He has two maroon scarves wrapped around his face, the slither of his exposed forehead a bright pink. "I can't see a thing out here!" 

They're on their way back from Hagrid's hut; Harry had felt immensely guilty at diverting his last visit and had roped Ron and Hermione into coming this time despite Hermione's mounting hysteria over exam preparation. He's still yet to fully explain to them that he's going to be spending Christmas at Malfoy Manor - he'd mentioned the impromptu Quidditch match with Draco but only that - but he's beginning to think he should say something soon in case Ron is taking Harry's usual presence at the Weasley Christmas table for granted.

"We could chuck some of Hagrid's mince pies? It might shed some weight and you'd stop sinking into the snow." Harry suggests instead, opting to wait for Ron to free his buried legs from an unexpected dip in the ground before adding the burden of his news to Ron's weary shoulders.

"Fat chance of that," Ron huffs, forgoing dignity and choosing to scramble out of the ditch on his stomach. One of the scarves has started to slip down his face. "If we get stuck out here, I'd risk even Hagrid's baking over starvation. We'll see who's laughing when you're begging me to share."

Hermione snorts, finally giving up to frustration and melts a path in the snow with her wand. "Don't be so dramatic, Ron." she says as she slides in the slush to lead the way.

"I wish you'd done that sooner." Ron grumbles. "My legs are numb!"

"Muggles make do without magic in these situations all the time." Hermione points out, adjusting the purple bobble hat - one of her better attempts from the S.P.E.W. days - on her head. Harry, despite Ron's gentle ribbing, is wearing a matching one in dark green. "They'd have to shovel their way through this."

"We're not muggles though, are we?"

"I managed to live eleven successful years as a muggle, thank you very much! So did Harry!"

"Yeah but why make things harder for yourself _now_?"

Hermione manoeuvres around a large rock, speaking calmly. "Just because we can do magic, it doesn't mean we need it in every aspect of our lives. We should take note from our muggle counterparts - just think of all the advancements they've made while we're effectively still stuck in the middle ages!"

"Speak for yourself! If it's not broken, no point trying to fix it - eh, Harry?"

Harry, ever the diplomat, shrugs. "I think magic is brilliant but I'm definitely with Hermione on the middle ages front."

"Thank you, Harry." Hermione smiles in satisfaction. "I think a lot of prejudices against muggles can be addressed directly if we made Muggle Studies a compulsory lesson. Why should flying be mandatory when we're co-existing with muggles our entire lives? I think it would be highly beneficial if students were given the opportunity to learn more about living without magic and seeing things in a new perspective."

Their journey progresses faster with Hermione in front, even with new snowflakes falling heavier than before. By the time they reach the cover of the rickety bridge, all three of them are dusted over with white and shuddering in heavy, damp clothes, the path Hermione had forged already lost beneath a fresh blanket of snow.

"Looks like we made it in the nick of time." Ron says with relief, stamping his boots clean. His tone grows playful when he turns towards Harry, shoving at his shoulder with a halfhearted thump. "Next time you suggest a walk down to Hagrid's, I say we check the weather first. Right, how about we head to the common room and make ourselves some hot chocolate before dinner?"

"Deal," Harry grins. "Although I think I know what Hermione is going to say..." he adds after noticing the look on her face.

Ron groans, slinging an arm around Hermione's waist. "If you mention revision _one more time_ , 'Mione. I swear I've done more revision this year alone than every other year added together! Come on, it's practically Christmas - good will to all men and all that."

"Oh - fine!" Hermione concedes, softening after a few seconds of regarding Ron with narrowed eyes. "I suppose you've earned a break."

"Good," Ron says cheerfully, planting a kiss on her cheek. "I intend to sit in my pyjamas all through Christmas, playing chess with Harry and zoning Perce out when he starts talking about his promotion at the Ministry."

"Uh - about that, Ron..."

"What? You _want_ to listen to Percy droan on about broomstick regulations and illegal Portkeys?!"

"No, it's not that." Harry pulls off his hat, one hand reaching up to tug at his scattered hair before he can think about it. "I sort of promised Draco that I'd go with him to Malfoy Manor for Christmas..."

The stunned silence that follows is an exceptionally awkward one.

Hermione breaks it, for once struggling to find the right words. "That's - that's really quite - "

"Mental." Ron settles on, exchanging glances with Hermione. "Absolutely mental."

Harry nods, looking out over the ravine from the bridge. The thing is, he'd have said the same about this situation some months ago, the improbability of sharing something threateningly close to pleasant with Draco. The bitter wind sharpens his mind somehow, it's easier to think out here than in the hazy warmth of their common room or amidst the din in the Great Hall. Here, his thoughts are clear. 

"What about the Burrow?! Everyone is expecting you. My mum's got your present under the tree and everything!"

Harry feels the pang of guilt in his stomach at that. "I know, I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner but it came out of nowhere, I didn't know what to say."

He hates to disappoint the Weasley's, especially because of how generous they've always been towards him. The Burrow has felt more like a home than anywhere else he's lived - aside from Hogwarts, of course - and the Weasley's are some of the people he cares about most. They'd taken him in with open arms when no one else had before, no questions asked. 

"Some Christmas this'll be," Ron says glumly. "With you off carolling with the Malfoy's and Hermione - "

Hermione's face drops. She'd spent a great deal of the summer searching for her parents, who had up and left Hermione's childhood home and moved to Australia in the time she, Harry and Ron had been tracking horcruxes. She'd had very little to go on at the beginning and as the chill of autumn began to creep into the sunny days, Hermione had started to wilt around the edges. Through love and sheer grit, she'd finally managed to hunt them down two months ago and had immediately flown out to restore their memories.

"Hermione, I didn't mean it like - "

"I know what you meant, Ron." Hermione bristles, eyes bright. She hastily wipes the back of mittened hands against her cheeks, allowing the wind to whip her corkscrew curls into her face. "I already explained to you that I need to be with my parents this Christmas. It was hard coming back to school but they understand that I have to do this. I thought that maybe after everything, you'd support me too."

"You're right," Ron says earnestly. "You should be with your family."

"Oh, it's nice that you're giving me permission!"

"It's not like that - "

"They told me that for the whole of that year, they felt like they were missing something - that it was like they forgot to pack something in the move but couldn't figure out what it was." Hermione pulls herself up and pins Ron down with her defiance; she looks formidable against the swirling storm behind her. "I did what I had to to keep my family safe but erasing all memory of me from their minds was the most painful thing I've ever had to do. I may not have spoken about it but I thought of them every single day when we were looking for horcruxes, knowing that they couldn't think of me back. Your family knew that you were alive, you had someone to run to when it became too much. Allow me the same right now, Ron."

Ron frees himself from the confines of the scarves, every inch of his freckled face drawn tight by unhappiness when he looks over Hermione. Harry finds himself troubled as he watches because although Ron and Hermione still bicker every other day, it's never about anything serious and it's always said with a gentling smile to extinguish any heat that might have lingered otherwise.

The fury in Hermione wavers ever so slightly when Ron says nothing. For the first time in as long as Harry can remember, Ron is holding back - something he isn't prone to doing when it comes to Hermione. He's always been ready to tease her, to defend her, to rile up and calm down and talk her away from working herself to death.

Harry doesn't know what to do; he tries to make himself appear busy, fiddling with the loose yarn of his lumpy hat, turning away while his best friends work through whatever they need to.

"You're right, I was being bloody selfish." Ron finally sighs. "You want to be with your parents for the same reason that I wanted you to be with me - you're family, you both are." Ron adds, shifting to include Harry. "I was stuck on the idea of making this Christmas perfect - knowing that Fred won't be there and - I just wanted everything to feel normal. I'm sorry that I didn't listen to you."

Harry can see that Hermione has already forgiven Ron before she says a word, the way the crackling energy between them is swept up and away from beneath the covered bridge by the wind, lost to the stormy skies. She steps towards him, deep brown eyes unguarded and wide, standing on her tiptoes to reach arms around his neck. And Ron - Ron is utterly lovestruck, folding himself into her without a moment of hesitation, his whole body curled around her as if she's the only thing hinging him to this earth.

Ron's former jealousy drawn out by the horcrux is a distant memory but it makes Harry want to laugh just the same, that Ron could think Harry and Hermione would have ever made a couple. The world feels right with Ron and Hermione, they've always made sense to Harry.

"But about Malfoy - " Ron begins when he and Hermione break apart, grimacing.

"Look, I know what you're going to say. I know that I shouldn't go because this - this _crush_ complicates things and we should be focusing on the boggart lessons but it's turned into something more, something bigger than that." Harry explains; how else can he say it? How else can he describe these new feelings stirring within him? "Right now, what Draco needs most is a friend and - well - that's sort of what I am to him."

"I wasn't going to say that but it's a good point." Ron says seriously. He lowers his voice, watching Hermione rub at her arm through the sleeve of her puffer jacket, at the place Bellatrix had scarred. "Are you sure you're okay going back there?"

"Yeah," Harry sucks in a fortifying deep breath. "Yeah, I think I am." 

"Okay." Ron says - and that's it. Harry's word is enough for him. "Now who wants some hot chocolate?"

***

They've officially broken up for Christmas and Harry is standing on the drizzly platform at Hogsmeade Station, having caught the Threstral-pulled carriages up from the school in a foreboding silence with Draco. Draco, it transpires, is not much of a morning person and as a result, not particularly prone to conversation - not that Harry hadn't tried. Draco was gracious enough to throw him a few one worded replies, shrinking back into the shadows of his seat whenever the light flared upon his drawn face.

Harry had bid farewell to Hermione and Ron that morning, seeing them off in their own carriage before he waited in the rain for an unrepentant and late Draco.

"Remember, write us when you can!" Hermione had said, leaning out the window to press a kiss to his cheek. She'd pushed a neatly wrapped parcel into his hands and then, more hesitantly, "I hope you have a nice Christmas. Don't open that until the 25th."

Ron's parting words had been less tactful. "If he starts driving you mad and you want to duck out of there early, come straight to the Burrow. You don't even have to send word."

All around them, other students are clambering joyously onto the Hogwarts Express, staking their claim on compartments. The festive mood isn't enough to dispel the shock their peers initially experienced at seeing Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy standing _together_ , and Harry can't help but notice the anxious twitches spasming through Draco's taut body on the occasions where they overhear the gossiping drifting from the train.

_"What's Potter doing with_ him?!" __

_"I wouldn't be caught dead with a Death Eater..."_

_"D'you think Potter's been cursed or something?"_

When Harry looks about and sees that they're some of the last to remain on the platform, he turns and finds Draco consulting his watch for the third time since they arrived at the station.

"What are we waiting for? Aren't we getting on?"

"What?" Draco says absently, lifting his eyes from the watch face. "Oh, Merlin no, Potter. We're not taking the train."

It's only now that Harry realises Draco has no trunk or luggage with him. 

"But - "

"I'm in no mood to be sneered at," he says sharply, adjusting the crisp cuff of his shirt sleeve. This, too, suddenly strikes Harry; Draco is even more immaculate than usual, which is quite a feat. The cut of his high collared black coat turns every line of him into a hard edge, his hair slicked back and smooth and bringing out the angles of his jaw and pointed chin. He looks impenetrable. "No. The Hogwarts Express is _not_ how we shall be journeying."

As if on cue, a shrill whistle rings out as a final warning to board and Harry pretends not to see the watchful faces pressed up against fogged up windows, feeling as if he could be under a spotlight. If Draco had wanted a conspicuous departure, he'd certainly found the most effective one.

"Ready, Potter?" Draco asks with some hint of trepidation just as the train begins to slowly chug away, thankfully taking with it their ogling peers.

Harry checks off everything he's packed, grateful for Hermione taking pity on him and casting an Undetectable Extension Charm on his backpack to save him hauling his trunk about: a ball of wrinkled clothes that he's sure will earn him Draco's disapproval, his toothbrush, several copies of Seeker Weekly that he's yet to get around to reading, a multitude of odd socks...

Satisfied with his inventory, he nods. "Ready."

Draco doesn't say another word, instead gently resting his hand on Harry's right shoulder as if in an embrace, applying the barest amount of pressure that sends Harry's stomach into a flip until the sudden, unexpected Apparition forces it into a tailspin.

When Harry's feet hit the ground again - softer than the platform, difficult to find purchase or steady footing - he staggers from beneath Draco's touch, gulping cold air to keep the nausea at bay. He has to brace his hands against his knees, staring down at the gravel beneath his shoes and hoping he won't vomit.

"Not a fan of Side-Along Apparition, are we?"

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, fending off the next twist in his gut. "A word of warning would have been nice!"

Draco's voice comes slightly puzzled from behind him, "I asked if you were ready."

"Well, maybe count to three next time!" Harry says, resurfacing to see Draco watching him with mild amusement, then the ever imposing childhood home of the Malfoy's looming just beyond him. "I, uh - don't remember there being so many gargoyles on your house..."

"I don't suppose you had time to admire the architecture the last time you were here." Draco tells him pointedly, letting himself in through the gate. A surprise: Harry had almost anticipated servants waiting for them but there's no one else to be seen. "Anyway, don't be obtuse, Potter. Those are grotesques, not gargoyles."

"What's the difference?"

"Gargoyles serve as a water spout but grotesques are just stone carvings. It's said gargoyles can only communicate if wind or rain passes through their mouths." Draco explains in a drawl, glancing up at a particularly hideous face as if expecting one to start talking at any moment. "What did they teach you at muggle school?"

"Um, science. Maths. A lot of running around after a football in the rain. That sort of stuff."

"I haven't the slightest idea of what you're referring to."

"Probably for the best." Harry says, grinning at the thought of Draco participating in a P.E. lesson. "Can't imagine you out on the field for a bit of a kickabout."

"A bit of _what_ now?" Draco splutters and his look of sheer indignation alone is enough to send Harry into a laughing fit.

Even after a year since looking upon it and especially this close, the Manor doesn't look homely. It's hard to imagine Draco feeling safe here at all; the way he's gazing at the heavy doors calls to Harry's mind the exact emotions he had felt returning to Privet Drive every summer. Had Draco ever loved this place? His expression suggests no.

His hand pauses against the door handle, "Potter, before we go in..." 

"My mother. She's...she's not very fond of visitors. She's aware you're here, of course, I would never dream of intercepting her privacy like that but - but the parlour is the one room she respectfully requests you keep your distance from." Draco explains, eyes downcast. His chest heaves as if his body is loathe to reveal any more of his family life. He coughs out the next words regardless. "It's always been her place, it's where she feels most at peace."

"You don't have to worry about me - I would never - I'm here for...you know." Harry finishes somewhat pathetically.

Draco gives him a searching look, "Right. Well, shall we begin? I'll give you the grand tour."

Harry hitches his bag higher, feeling under dressed in his trainers and jeans in spite of his better judgement when they come through into the cavernous entrance hall.

High glossy beams of dark wood contrast with the black and white floor tiles, every surface made to pick up the slightest noise and echo it back to the anxious guest at three times the volume. It's opulent, to be sure - but it's cold, without any warmth to it. Harry has to suppress a shudder of discomfort at the impersonality of it. Even the Dursley's house bore signs of familial love, even if they had neglected to include Harry.

"There's not much to see," Draco says, his voice sounding as if he's speaking through a distorted microphone. "The Ministry confiscated most of our possessions after my father's arrest. They seemed to think it reasonable to test everything on the chance they may find dark artefacts - oh, I've no doubt they found something to justify their search but I can't begin to imagine what they think we'd have done to turn a set of antique silver spoons lethal." he adds upon seeing Harry's sceptical expression.

Draco leads Harry up the staircase, thickly and luxuriously carpeted but clearly in need of a clean. Draco picks up on the object of Harry's attention, naturally.

"We have one house-elf in our employ. It seemed imprudent to insist he clean the entire manor for the sake of my mother, who only keeps to her room and the parlour. I think it can stand to grow a little dusty."

"You said you had staff to meet when you asked me here?"

"Yes. We have Ploddy - that's our house-elf - a chef and a gardener. Ploddy takes on most of the responsibilities in the house and he has freedom to come and go as he wishes although he never really does. He does take Sunday afternoons off, at my request."

"Doesn't your mum feel, I dunno, a bit isolated being here all the time with no one else around?" Harry asks awkwardly, following Draco down a dark corridor. It's chillier in the house than it is outside, no wonder Draco is strapped down in that restrictive coat.

"Potter, it's like this at my mother's insistence. We let go of the rest of the staff because - " Draco cuts himself off, glancing at Harry with uncertainty.

"I'm sorry, it's not my business."

"No, it's not." Draco agrees bemusedly. "Yet I find myself wanting to tell you all the same. My mother became sick to death of people. If I'm to tell you the truth, she was never fond of company to begin with but after - after _him_ and after my father's imprisonment, she simply gave up bending to the will of society and chose solitude over judgement. She chose an easy road and I don't blame her for that."

"You didn't," Harry says. "Choose the easy road, I mean."

"Perhaps I'm masochistic."

"I think you prefer being around people, even if you don't show it."

Draco doesn't say anything, the only acknowledgement to Harry's words is a muscle jumping along his jaw. Harry decides not to press the issue, instead marvelling at the long gallery they've entered into, unnaturally bright with its wide windows allowing daylight to spill in when compared to the rest of the Manor thus far.

"The portrait gallery." Draco dismisses with a lazy wave of his hand, indicating to the long succession of the Malfoy line glaring down at Harry with strong distaste. "I beg of you: ignore them. They're never pleasant, not even to me."

Harry wonders how he can possibly begin to ignore them. There are hundreds, taking up every space on the wall so that only slithers of dark wood peak through, like cracks in a plate. Multitudes of frames, in all shapes and sizes, all bearing some variation of a disgusted face and the same white blonde hair that Harry has come to eagerly seek out.

"Unfortunately, we have to pass through here so if you just quicken your - "

"Wait..."

"What could you possibly - oh."

"Is that you?" Harry murmurs, already knowing the answer, staring up at one of the largest portraits in the room. 

It's of the family - _Draco's_ family. Narcissa is seated and straight backed in a rather austere chair, terribly beautiful. Lucius lurks behind her, positively glowering at his son coming to stand beside Harry. And between them? Draco. He's much younger than when Harry first lay eyes on him, maybe six or seven years old. Small, round eyed and chubby cheeked, peering out of the frame as if he already knows where his future lies and that he's powerless to stop it. Lucius's hand is a claw on the young Draco's shoulder, holding him back, reining him in with a swift tug.

"Yes, we're quite the epitome of the happy family, don't you think?"

Harry looks between the two Draco's, at the plain _despondency_ within them both. The blankness in their gaze is identical; Harry's heart breaks for him.

"Oh please, Potter. I don't need to be treated to another one of your little speeches about how desperately sad I am. Come on, this way."

The rest of the tour of the Manor is brusque, dispassionate even. Draco guides Harry through the vast empty rooms, stripped bare of any furniture they may have formerly housed, sending goosebumps along Harry's spine at how much the place seems all but abandoned. Draco shows him a witch nook, similar to the muggle priest holes of their time, concealed behind a decorative fireplace and used by the family during those uneasy times when witch burning was still prevalent and slip ups could cost lives.

Draco completes a full circuit of the house, emphatically bypassing the dungeons and the drawing room, a gesture of unforeseen thoughtfulness that faintly surprises Harry.

"As you can see," Draco drawls, coming to a halt outside a door. "This place is far too large for my mother to live alone but I can't persuade her to sell and move. So _I'm_ stuck dealing with it."

"Surely she can see that this isn't practical?"

Draco becomes defensive, bright spots of red colouring his cheeks. "She knows that! It's hard for her to break free though. Believe it or not, there were times in my parents marriage that had a semblance of love. She struggles to reconcile the man he used to be with the man he is now - though my father has always maintained his views on muggles and a pure bloodline. A lesser evil, perhaps, if you can call it that."

"No offence but it's hard to imagine your dad as someone who could inspire love." Harry cuts in, remembering every encounter he's ever had with Lucius Malfoy, in the flesh or boggart.

"He was youthful once, maybe not as jaded or warped by our family's particular prejudices. They'd found a place here together until the marriage became founded on the notion that it was a matter of convenience instead of affection - you can love someone without liking them..." Draco finishes quietly as if to himself, finally pushing open the door to reveal a guest room. 

Harry can tell that it was once handsomely decorated but the raid by the Ministry has left much to be desired. He's thankful to at least see a four poster bed in the middle of the room, situated close enough to the window to gaze out at the expansive gardens. There isn't much else of note besides an empty wardrobe with the doors ripped off and a black lacquered and gilt desk bearing a fine china bowl filled with water and a hand towel.

Draco is attuned to Harry's thoughts. "Only the finest rooms for our guests. I suppose we're lucky to have been spared a bed or two otherwise you'd have been sleeping on an extraordinarily uncomfortable chaise longue."

"Anything beats the cupboard under the stairs."

"I wish," Draco begins slowly, watching Harry chuck his bag unceremoniously onto the bed. "That you wouldn't say that so flippantly."

"I - I didn't realise it bothered you."

"Potter, it _alarms_ me that it doesn't bother _you_."

"I - "

At that moment, a young house-elf - Ploddy, Harry remembers - comes bounding around the corner. He's a far cry from how Dobby appeared when he served the Malfoy's. His uniform is pristine, a bright white pillowcase bearing the house-elf's name neatly embroidered in electric blue upon his breast. He's holding a sugar bowl in one hand and a tea cup in the other.

"Begging your pardon, Master Draco. I is just preparing Mistress's tea when I is told to tell you that you is being wanted downstairs." 

"Thank you, Ploddy. Can you make sure Potter here has everything he needs while I'm gone?" Draco says formally, turning to Harry as Ploddy bows deeply, nose brushing the floor. "I shan't be too long. Do try to keep out of trouble, if that's at all possible for you."

"You know me." Harry shrugs, grinning, revelling in the ease of their banter. "I like a quiet life."

Harry waits for Draco's footsteps to fade down the corridor, then turns his attention to Ploddy, waiting expectantly by the door.

"You don't have to hang about, you know. I don't mind getting about by myself." Harry says gently. "I'll definitely call if I need you though." he adds upon seeing the disappointment on Ploddy's face.

"If you is sure, sir." Ploddy says. Then - "I is hearing from the Hogwarts house-elves that you is a great wizard. It is an honour to meet you."

"Oh - uh - cheers, Ploddy." Harry says sheepishly, reaching down to shake the house-elf's full hands as best as he can. "It's really good to meet you, too."

Ploddy exuberantly bows his way out of the room, so thrilled by the encounter that he doesn't notice the sugar pouring from the sugar bowl, leaving a white trail across the floor and into the corridor as he goes.

Alone and not knowing when Draco might return, the strain which Harry had managed to keep at bay slowly begins to creep in. There's a tightness in his chest that he can't control, a low simmering ache that spreads like fire from his heart and claws into his throat. His pulse is jumping like he's on the fringes of excitement but Harry knows it's something much worse than that, some underlying panic that will turn his head dizzy and empty his lungs of breath if he lets it get the better of him.

Not liking the idea of being confined to one room with only his thoughts to occupy him, Harry decides to retrace his steps, figuring it'd be better to at least get a handle of the Manor's extensive corridors and shadowy rooms than limit himself to relying on Draco to shuttle him around.

He steps out of his room, leaving his unpacked bag on the bed. 

Traces of menace seem to linger here, settling on him like fine, silken cobwebs. Setting off, he peers into the rooms Draco had neglected, unable to keep himself from wondering where Voldemort had walked. Had he paced this very corridor, black robes swirling like smoke, those unfeeling red eyes sweeping over the family whose home he had claimed as if they were nothing more than furniture? 

Harry trembles, hair prickling beneath the sleeves of his hoody. Malfoy Manor had been bearable with Draco by his side but to walk without company lends the grand home a new, unnerving atmosphere. Harry no longer opens every door he passes, the portrait gallery losing all its former interest in the dark house growing darker with every minute the sun sets.

Harry wanders until his sights come to rest on a familiar passage, one that Draco had deliberately paid no heed of to spare Harry of - pain? Disgust? Terror? With measured steps, Harry takes the narrow stairway leading down toward the dungeon, passing beneath the lit brackets crackling with blue magical flames.

Against his own wishes, his body betrays him and draws him in. With a rusty creak, the gate swings open under Harry's light touch.

" _Lumos_."

The dank dungeon is exactly as Harry recalls it; he can only just stand in the middle of the room at his full height, the low ceiling brushing the tips of his hair, and it's as if he's journeyed back in time some several months. 

There is where Ollivander had been slumped, haggard and only just alive. And there - the spot where Luna had emerged from the gloom, pale faced and astonished to see Harry. Then there came Dobby, a hopeful flash of a lifeline, appearing when Harry needed him, just as he always had. Harry glances around the dismal place, the sounds of Hermione's harrowing screams ringing faint in his ears, the remembered helplessness in him so acute that he has to shut his eyes against it.

"I thought you wouldn't want to come down here..."

Harry jumps and thumps his head off the ceiling, swearing violently as he spins to find Draco hitched up against the wall by the doorway. Somewhere in his time attending to duties, he'd shed the coat and gone as far as to undo the top few buttons of his shirt. The sight of him arrests Harry, Draco's long limbs arranged effortlessly so that he gives the outward appearance of being utterly at leisure.

Harry has no idea how long he's been standing there for or what he may be thinking beyond his carefully blank face. Had he been following Harry?

"I didn't - I never planned to, anyway. It just sort of happened."

Draco takes a moment to absorb that, clearly deciding that Harry is speaking the truth because he pushes away from the wall, making no move to cross the threshold.

"Ploddy is certainly enraptured by you." Draco informs Harry, tone purposely light and casual like he's hoping to try and talk over the past flickering between them. "Tell me, is there anybody you can't charm the robes off of?"

"I can think of one person but I'm working on it."

"I see."

"Do you?" Harry demands, suddenly breathless at the possibility of Draco acknowledging his attentions instead of sidestepping them. 

There's a heady break between their words, a moment where they stare at each other from across the dungeon, Draco framed by the soft glow trickling down the stairway, his shadow stretching across to the edge of the pool of light at Harry's feet - and Harry can see everything Draco is feeling because though he tries his best, he can never conceal his emotions entirely.

Harry knows that Draco is seeing exactly what he is, a perfect parallel of the last time they had been here together when Draco had come to collect Griphook and Harry had been captive; Draco's fear had been clear to Harry even then, his shaking voice barking orders through the locked gate with as much conviction as someone who had a choice between only this or death. He knows that Draco is seeing not just how close the two of them had come to something perilous, but how far they have both been altered since that desperate time.

"Yes." Draco simply says in response to the question, levelling a steady gaze at Harry. He makes no other allusions for Harry's benefit, switching topics without bothering to be subtle. "Let's get out of here. I've had Ploddy arrange an informal dinner in your room for us. It hardly seems worth preparing the dining room for a party of two. I - I presumed you'd be happier that way?"

"Absolutely," Harry agrees wholeheartedly, making to follow Draco back up the stairs but not before giving the room one final glance, turning his back on that particular darkness once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know! I'm sorry about this taking a little longer to post! I think there are probably going to be two chapters left for this fic (originally meant to be one more after this chapter but this one would have been at least 10,000 words long so I've decided to split it.) I haven't read through this whole so fingers crossed it makes sense!
> 
> I hope this was worth the wait. Love to you, as usual!


	8. Chapter 8

Christmas at Malfoy Manor isn't how Harry had imagined it. In some aspects, it's _exactly_ what he pictured; cheerless hallways, grey and sombre, not a single bauble to be seen in any of the hundreds of rooms. Draco had warned him about his errands and Harry had accepted the invitation to the Manor knowing those terms - but still, he found the silence here to be deafening when Draco was off making adjustments to the chef's menu or chasing down rogue peacocks in the orchard.

Over the days leading up to Christmas, there was little to occupy him. After his initial exploration of the Manor, Harry had wandered the rest of the property; he peered into the empty stables-turned-broom shed which had clearly housed an impressive collection of broomsticks before the Ministry seized the Malfoy's possessions; he toured the gardens, complete with its own hedge-maze where he'd lost his bearings and became trapped for thirty minutes before giving in by using the _Point Me_ spell to finally find his way out; Harry walked the edges of the frozen pond, remembering his last excursion to a similar body of water, his foolhardy attempt at retrieving a horcrux which had almost cost him his life had it not been for Ron.

Yet when Draco was free of his responsibilities, he often came to Harry. He seemed to have a particular knack for tracking him down no matter what corner of the grounds Harry had disappeared off to and it was - _nice_. It's nice knowing that Draco actively sought him out for company instead of avoiding him.

It was nicer still seeing Draco shed his armour, as tough as it was to the shell of a Blast Ended Skrewt, until he could laugh freely - at least, laugh _more often_ than he used - at Harry's quips at the hedges trimmed into the twisting shape of snakes or the ostentatious dress robes, all in startling shades of green, that the Malfoy family chose to wear for their portraits.

Harry enjoys the days where they can just talk.

On the morning of Christmas eve, Harry is lounging on his bed, flicking through a Seeker Weekly magazine without much interest. He's anticipating a quiet day, that Draco is probably up to his elbows in planning now that their days here will be numbered once Christmas is out of the way, when Draco lightly raps his knuckles against the door frame.

"May I come in?"

Harry's cursory glance over the magazine turns into a prolonged stare. Draco isn't wearing his usual pressed trousers and button up shirt, nor those high collared jumpers which he favours. He's in muggle clothing. Grey jogging bottoms and a baggy black sweatshirt. His hair - fluffy in a way that suggests it's freshly washed - keeps falling into his eyes. He's _barefoot_. 

This is practically risque for Draco. 

"This is your house, Draco."

Harry doesn't recover enough to act completely natural but Draco takes no notice.

"Did no one _ever_ teach you the value of manners, Potter?"

Harry grins, pulling himself up into a sitting position. The copy of Seeker Weekly has slipped down the side of the bed somewhere but Harry doesn't care; his day is about to become far more interesting than an outdated Player of the Month feature.

"Alright - come on in then, if you're coming."

Draco shuts his eyes briefly, allowing himself to divulge in a moment of distaste for Harry's rough and unvarnished words. 

"I shudder, Potter, at such breathtaking incivility." 

"I like to think of it more as stunningly down to earth." Harry says with a shrug, shifting his legs to create space for Draco to sit. "I'm surprised you're here and not out on the lawn pulling gnomes out of the bushes or something."

"I took the day off." Draco says blithely with a quirked brow. "I'm told people do such things when there's a holiday. Besides, I've already made all the arrangements for lunch tomorrow so consider my schedule cleared for the day. I apologise for not being around often, Potter, I know there isn't much here to entertain when left to your own devices." 

"Don't be daft, you told me you'd be busy. Anyway, I've had a ton of time to write to Ron and Hermione. Ron's been sending me letters every other day complaining that his brother Charlie keeps beating him at chess."

"You'll be sure to pass my regards onto Weasley, won't you? I'm positive that will brighten his Christmas." Draco teases, tucking his feet beneath himself neatly.

"You have that in common with Ginny, you know. She loves nothing more than to wind Ron up."

Draco tenses but his voice is suspiciously light when he next speaks, "Am I much like her, then?"

"What? No." Harry scoffs. "No, Ginny could kick my arse at Quidditch any day of the week. You, on the other hand..."

"You could only dream, Potter. You know what I meant."

Harry's smile diminishes slightly. He falls back onto his elbows, tilting his head to regard Draco sat straight backed and haughty at the other end of the bed.

"You're nothing alike. You're your own people. It's easier talking to you about some things - things that I couldn't really say to Ginny. Ginny, well, she didn't really - "

"She didn't understand you? Really, Potter?" Draco interjects. "Give her some credit."

"No!" Harry says, aghast. "No, not exactly. More like, she didn't understand why I couldn't...let everything go - it was just as hard for her but I - I just - there's something I couldn't shake off. Like, I knew that we'd never really be happy together for long. God, it felt like we were just trying to keep up appearances for the sake of it even though our hearts weren't really in it anymore. This - this isn't coming out right at all, I sound like a right old git."

"I would tell you that's true but I'm afraid you're hardly making sense."

Harry sits up onto his knees, hands braced on the soft mattress beneath his hands, shuffling closer. Draco startles at the movement, violently jolting away like a pair of invisible hands are gripping him by the shoulders and yanking him back but he recovers well, expression shifting back into passive.

"The war brought on this rush of emotions for the both of us, we were terrified that the other wasn't going to survive and we just - we collided together again because of that fear. In the moment it felt right but after, when everything was done and the world felt too...quiet - it's like we could hear each other again and we realised we'd fallen out of sync."

"And - and I can't break out of this thing. Ron and Hermione call it my hero complex." Harry admits hesitantly. "I keep waiting for everything to come apart again - like, I can't really relax a lot of the time. I think Ginny could sense that too, she's always been able to see more than what I was giving." 

Draco speaks slowly, clearly. "I resent the fact that I have to be the one to tell you this but you're not this great disaster that you think you are."

"Everything has always gone wrong around me. It's like, sometimes it's like the earth is exploding under my feet and I have to find a way to stop it. I feel like I'm just trying to find a ledge to hold onto or something."

It's more than he's ever managed to say to anyone, even Ron and Hermione. He's tried - of course he's tried. That niggling secret dread that he's cursed, _destined_ to find ruin wherever he goes, had buried itself in his brain like a seed years ago and finally bloomed into something incapacitating after Voldemort's death. The reason for his sleepless nights, the nightmares, the lingering trepidation that flares up if he's left to his thoughts long enough. The cruel irony that he should be always looking over his shoulder now that danger is behind him.

Voldemort stalks his footsteps even now.

"Potter, you are the reason why the rest of us get to live freely. Do you think I'd be here having this chat with you if you'd not defeated the Dark Lord? If you'd not saved my life?" Draco says sharply. "Things go wrong around you because other people are _creating_ those problems. You're not the cause. You take on too much, you don't owe them anything else."

Harry shakes his head, instinctively reaching for his scar. "I've spent a lot of my life feeling helpless. I've never been able to turn away from someone who needed help. How could I? How could I refuse after all the stuff I went through? Everyone turned a blind eye to the Dursley's and the way they treated me, I don't want to be the person who looked away to somebody else."

"Is that who I am to you? Someone helpless?"

"Draco, no." Harry says desperately, fingers digging into the bed-sheets. "You're one of the strongest people I know. You're not _helpless_ but it's okay to need _help_."

Draco tugs the loose collar of his jumper up unconsciously, blonde hair falling into his skittish eyes. He can't seem to look at Harry directly.

"I'd appreciate it if you sat back."

"Sorry - "

"Don't be. I just have a hard time being comfortable when people lean in like that."

"Not a fan of feeling close to people, huh?" 

The expression on Draco's face closes like shutters being drawn.

"Obviously you know this."

"Do you ever get tired of being lonely?" Harry asks, half joking to backtrack on his mistake.

When they had veered down a similar vein of conversation before, Draco had been flippant about it. _Some of us enjoy the solitude._ Draco doesn't seem to be at ease now, not here in his own home. This time, something gives him pause; he casts about the room, voice dropping to a whisper as if afraid of what his confession may unleash or what spirits of the past may be around to overhear it.

"No-one likes being alone, Potter. Loneliness, even as a choice, can be exhausting," Draco picks through his words with care. "I know that I can appear - appear frozen. I know that it's as if I've been hewn from ice because I'm remote. Even with my mother, I feel...distant. _Even_ on the rare occasions when she invites me into her parlour, it's as if I'm as far away as the clouds - untouchable but not in the best sense of the word. I feel like I'm constantly trying to - to swim back down to earth but I keep getting sucked back up into the sky."

"I get it, I know what - "

"What do you know of being alone?" comes Draco's sharp reply. 

"I reckon I know enough, actually." Harry says coolly. "You can feel alone even with a hundred people standing around you."

Harry understands the cost of isolation. After Cedric's death, after Voldemort's return, he'd strained for any news of the wizarding world. It had seemed like everything had blown away like smoke, leaving him behind choking amidst smouldering ashes and charred wood. No matter how hard he had tried to dig through it all, no matter if he found the smallest spark of news, it would die in his hands and he'd be left all alone again. That is, until the dementors came to Little Whinging. He'd been almost glad to see them, to see some confirmation that magic still glowed beneath the murky debris.

Self inflicted isolation, too. He'd taken himself away from his friends, from all who cared for him, locked himself away in the darkest prison cell of his own making because he thought they would be safer for it. All that had done was cause despair and pain to all parties.

"Draco, as someone who was where you are now, there will always be people waiting to reach out and pull you back in."

"Ah," Draco says, eyes turned down. "Therein lies the catch: you're Harry Potter. People would line the streets to know you. The same people who would spit at my feet."

"I wouldn't." Harry tells him firmly. "I wouldn't let them."

"Yes," Draco agrees, grimacing. "Yes, I think I'm beginning to see that. You're eternally bewildering, Potter. The truth is, I _know_ I shouldn't have gone back to Hogwarts. I know how it looks to other people, the sheer entitlement of it all. I'm tired though. Tired of having things taken away from me." 

"I had the finest education growing up, I was surrounded by highly esteemed members of the Ministry. All of that counts for nothing when that education has been tainted by bias and the Ministry officials flattered by bribes made by my father. I have no real sense of the world. My knowledge is false, my company bought. Everything in my life is an extension of that - except, perhaps, you."

"I _had_ to go back to Hogwarts, for myself." Draco explains. "I need to start living on my own terms and that includes people being free to think of me as they please. I need to - to relearn how to be a person."

"If you want my opinion, I think you're doing a pretty good job of it."

"I don't," Draco says with a smirk. "But thank you."

They both glance out of the window then, watching the rain patter against glass. Harry finds himself longing for the snow back at Hogwarts, for some sort of Christmas cheer in this miserable place...

_Of course_.

Harry slides off the bed, motioning for Draco to stay put. "While you're here, I have something for you - "

He reaches for his backpack, cast off into the bottom of the empty wardrobe. He'd never gotten around to unpacking his things for their short stay. The hair on the back of his neck tells him that Draco is watching as he rummages through the bag, up to his elbow in scattered magazines and a cascade of socks before his hand finally closes on crinkled paper.

Coming up triumphant, Harry returns back to the bed and sees Draco staring down at Hermione's parcel in his hands.

"What's that?"

"Hermione gave it to me when we broke up for the holidays. There's a note, it's addressed to both of us. She told me not to open it until the 25th but I won't tell her if you won't." Harry explains, tearing at the edge of the outer wrapping to shake out two smaller parcels within. "Here, this one is for you."

Draco tentatively takes the present, swiping his thumb over the cheerful holly print wrapping paper. When he peers back at Harry, he does so from beneath pale lashes, as if too ashamed to meet Harry's ever direct gaze head on.

"Why? After everything I've done to Granger..."

"I guess Hermione is ready to move forward. Maybe - maybe don't take that for granted." Harry adds, suddenly struck down by a fear that Draco won't realise how important it is that Hermione has decided to include him. This is her olive branch and if Draco refuses it, Harry very much doubts she'll extend any further offerings of peace. "You said you wanted to live on your own terms. Here's a chance to do that."

Draco doesn't refuse. He slips one finger beneath the edge of the wrapping paper and peels it away from the spellotape, taking tremendous amount of care so not to rip it. A grey scarf spills out into Draco's hands, rippling with strands of silver that highly suggest the wool is infused with its own magic, all Hermione's practice knitting hats for house-elves paying off with tremendous effect. She's definitely outdone herself.

"I don't know what to say." Draco confesses, breathless as he runs a finger over pearlescent strands. 

"I think Hermione'll just be happy for you both to have a fresh start."

Draco nods, still marvelling over the scarf.

"One more thing..." Harry reaches behind him and beneath his pillow, and draws out a wand. 10". Hawthorn. Unicorn hair. Draco's wand. "I figured after everything, you deserve this back permanently. Just, uh, do me a favour and don't mention this to McGonagall or she'll kill me. Happy Christmas, Draco."

He's handed this wand back to Draco so many times before now, holding it out at the start of every one of their boggart lessons before either of them said a word. Draco always treated the occasion like he was a starving man set before a feast; the very feel of the wand in his hand seemed to provide Draco with a sort of nourishment, he'd turn towards the trunk which contained the boggart with replenished energy that he rarely displayed any other time.

Now, though - now, it is as if Draco has finally found his soul again. He glows before Harry's eyes, nimble fingers grasping the hilt of his wand like he is prising Excalibur itself from stubborn rock. 

"This is - " Draco is at a loss. He runs a gentle touch down the length of the wand, grey eyes brighter than the sun on the snow. Brighter than anything Harry has seen before. So bright that Harry wants to take Draco's face in his hands. Draco coughs, trying again. "This is unexpected."

"It's the least I could do - "

"But I haven't gotten you anything." Draco says, grip tightening on the wand like he's waiting for Harry to wrestle it from his grasp now that he knows there's nothing in exchange.

"It's fine, I don't need anything. I just want you to be happy."

Draco weighs up Harry's words and Harry can almost hear him thinking inside the silent room.

"You don't need anything?" Draco speaks softly to his knees, a little awkward and stiff as if the day isn't going at all how he had imagined it and he has no prepared plan for this. "But there _is_ something you want. From me, I mean." He looks up at Harry then, pupils blown wide and dark so that only a thin band of grey remains around its perimeter.

"What are you - "

Draco lifts his wand, pointing it upward towards the wooden structure of the four poster bed. Leaves begin to sprout there, unfurling to reveal small white berries, a beautiful bow of red delicately twining itself around the stems of the plant. Mistletoe.

"I've heard that there's a custom when two people meet beneath mistletoe. I suppose it's slightly ironic that muggles also used to use it as a way to ward off witches..."

This is the most formal proposition that Harry has ever encountered but it's so utterly Draco that he's completely charmed by it. His mouth is dry and he has to swallow hard before he can speak.

"Draco, you don't have to do this."

"Did you ever stop to consider that perhaps I want to?"

"Okay."

Harry holds himself still because he can't be sure that Draco won't take flight at the sign of any movement, however slight. There's an edge of nerves about him, permeating from Draco's boxed up body and Harry wonders how long it's been since Draco kissed anyone. 

The thought of that brings what's happening to the forefront, sinking into Harry's every pore; Draco is going to kiss him. Here. In Malfoy Manor. Harry can feel his whole body absorb that, from the thump of his heart to the very loud, very embarrassing whooshes of air huffing through his nostrils, and Harry realises how much he _wants_ it.

Because if Draco claims to be made from the winter, then Harry - Harry will be the spring. Harry wants to deliver the sun and release Draco from that ice to find crystal clear waters running beneath, bright and warm, just as he _knows_ there will be. He wants to brush kisses like blossom petals across Draco's pale skin, trail fingers like green grass against his face, his arms, his hair. He wants to whisper birdsong into his ears and wash away the last traces of fragile cold with sweet rain.

Draco doesn't even move, not really. He just leans in, grey eyes transfixed on Harry's mouth with an intensity as if he's lip-reading. Harry can tell that Draco means to make this count but is trying to understand how to do that and Harry, silently, hopelessly, urges him on until he can feel Draco's quiet, hot gasps on his lips.

"Master Draco, I is sorry to be disturbing you but you is needed in the parlour. Mistress is wanting you, sir."

Draco surges backwards, almost propelling himself from the bed before turning to Ploddy with bright red cheeks. The house elf is stood in the doorway, a children's knitted Christmas vest thrown on top of his uniform in celebration of the holiday. Silver bells have been stitched in place of the buttons.

"Yes - thank you - tell mother I'll be there shortly."

Ploddy bows, jingling merrily as he scurries off.

"I'll - just - my mother. " Draco stammers to Harry, growing more scarlet by the second, his moment of bravery already faded.

Harry lets out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, the tension ribboning out of him in one go.

"Oh - yeah, you should definitely, uh - "

"Unless you need anything?"

"You're great - I mean, it's great. Everything is...great."

Draco jumps to his feet, running a hand over his hair. "Right." 

_Merlin_ , Harry thinks to himself, _Merlin, we're ridiculous._

Draco stops, turning back so that his gaze falls across Harry on the bed. Without any preamble, Draco extends his arm to slide a smooth palm along Harry's cheek, his thumb tracing the edge of Harry's cheekbone, fingertips lightly tickling the shell of his ear and into the fringes of his hair. The way Draco is _looking_ at him makes Harry feel undone; he feels wide open; he feels translucent. 

"Merry Christmas, Potter." he says, and somehow this is far more intimate than the near-kiss.

When Draco backs away and disappears to his mother's parlour, Harry fits a hand over his cooling cheek, replacing Draco's warmth with his own, thinking maybe Draco doesn't need him to be the spring after all. 

Maybe Draco has begun to thaw out all on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PENULTIMATE CHAPTER ALERT. 
> 
> As usual, sorry if this felt like a bit of a long wait! I've started a new job, I'm thinking of applying for a Master's so it's all a bit chaotic at the moment but I _am_ finishing this story!
> 
> Lots of love x


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